I leaned back against the counter and watched the two deadliest men in London argue about pancake taxonomy while my tiny dog supervised from his water bowl and my Bratva husband poured coffee with a baby tucked into the crook of his neck.
Three years of running. Three years of locked doors and cash under floorboards and flinching at footsteps. And now I was standing in a warm kitchen in a house full of armed men and burnt breakfast, and none of it felt like a cage.
It felt like mine.
I found my pack.
21
Ivan
Mary McCarthy had beenliving in the east wing for over a month, and the east wing had not known what hit it.
Before Mary, it was a quiet stretch of guest rooms with old portraits, heavy curtains, and furniture nobody sat on unless they were waiting to be judged by ancestors.
Then Mary arrived, and within seventy-two hours the east wing sounded like someone had opened a boarding school and immediately lost control of the students.
There were shopping bags in the hall. There was music at odd hours. There was a yoga mat in the corridor for three days before anyone identified what it was. Gregor had stepped over it twelve times before finally asking, "Is this a threat?"
"It's for stretching," Maeve said.
"Stretching what?"
Maeve laughed. "Muscles, Gregor. She's stretching her muscles."
Gregor had looked at the mat for a long moment. "Just walk."
The motivational quotes appeared in week two.
The first one was taped to the portrait of my great-grandfather who was a dour man with mutton chops and a look that said he had never once been pleased by anything. Under his gilt frame, a neon-pink Post-it read:
YOU MISS 100% OF THE SHOTS YOU DON'T TAKE.
Gregor removed it.
Mary put it back, this time higher.
Gregor removed it again.
Mary replaced it with one that read:
MANIFEST. MOTIVATE. GROWTH.
I found Gregor standing in front of the portrait later that day, arms crossed, staring at the Post-it like it was a personal insult. "This is provocation."
"It's a quote, Gregor."
"It's mambo jumbo."
"She's young. Pink is developmentally appropriate."
"She has taped it to a Petrov."
"A dead Petrov."
"That doesn’t make it better."
I sided with Mary immediately. It was the most entertainment I'd had since the wedding, and also Gregor's face when confronted with youth culture was something I planned to enjoy for as long as Mary's supplies held out.
