Chapter 8
Mary
Dima hasn’t said a single word since we walked into the store. Just followed me aisle to aisle like an emotionally repressed bloodhound. No cart. No list. No concept of personal space.
I don’t even need foot cream.
I edge toward the next aisle. Feminine hygiene. Try to act casual. Very normal. Just a woman… looking at tampons she doesn’t need.
Dima shifts with me. No footsteps. Just that silent shadow-glide thing he does. A corner of his jacket brushes my arm.
Now we’re both standing in front of Plan B, and I’m sweating through my sports bra.
The box is just there. Top shelf. Staring at me like it knows I hesitated too long. Like it knows exactly what kind of man I’ve tangled myself up with… and how hard it’ll be to untangle.
Come on, Mary. This is normal. People do this all the time. Totally fine. Totally responsible.
But my hand stalls. I reach for a bottle of multivitamins instead. Adult strength. Gummy. Safe.
“Immune system,” I mumble, turning the bottle like it might tell me how to stop being an idiot. “Flu season.”
Part of me wants to defend myself; say, “Obviously I’m not buying Plan B in front of a Russian Robocop.” The other part of me just wants to melt into the vitamin aisle and never be seen again.
Dima doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. He’s got that same look I’ve seen Gordo make when he stares at the wall like he sees another dimension.
I feel my face go hot. The kind of hot that starts at your collarbone and spreads like a rash of shame.
It was just a kiss.
Except it wasn’t. Because now everything’s weird, and Anton won’t look at me the same way, and I keep replaying his voice in my head—You’re not weak, Mary—like it meant something.
And maybe it did. Right up until I opened my stupid mouth and ruined it.
I’m so sorry to hear that.
What the hell was that? Pity? Sympathy? A full-blown therapy session?
I don’t even know anymore. One second, I was eating greasy noodles with a bunch of lethal Russian men who, for some reason, didn’t make me feel like an outsider. The next, Anton looked at me like I’d kicked him in the teeth.
And then he left. Just… left.
Now I’m here. With vitamins I don’t need and a morning-after pill I’m too chickenshit to reach for. Still dressed in the same leggings from the shooting range. My hair’s in a greasy bun, my thighs are sticking to themselves, and I’m pretty sure I smell like leftover dumplings and gunpowder.
Awesome.
I drop the vitamins in my basket and turn toward the front, trying not to breathe too hard.
“We should get going,” Dima says quietly behind me.
I jump a little. “Right. Yeah.”
Except… as we reach the registers, I catch sight of the weird mini pet section tucked behind batteries and plastic razors.
“Almost forgot about Gordo,” I say, already veering toward the sad, fluorescent-lit corner.
Dima moves with me. One step behind, always.
The cat food is stupidly high up. Like, need-a-ladder high. I rise on my tiptoes, fingertips grazing the edge of a dusty bag of something called Meow Chow Delight. Not even the real brands. Just vibes.
Before I can tip it down and brain myself, Dima reaches over and pulls it off the shelf with one hand. Offers it to me without a word.
“Thanks,” I say too fast.
He doesn’t respond. Just stands there, still holding the bag, waiting for me to grab it.
He holds the bag a second longer than necessary, like he’s making sure I really want to take it. It rustles between us, that awkward pause hanging too loud in the air.
“Anton wasn’t mad at me, was he?” I ask. “Earlier. At the table.”
Dima pauses. Then hands me the bag fully. His voice is quiet.
“He wasn’t mad. Just… doesn’t like remembering things he had to do to survive.”
I nod. Swallow the knot in my throat.
Then Dima adds, almost like an afterthought, “You make him forget. That’s the part that confuses him.”
I blink.
But before I can ask what he means, he turns, nods toward the front. “Come on. I parked out back.”
At the register, I dig out my own card before he can even reach for Anton’s. If I can afford it, I’m not charging cat food and vitamins to the Bratva expense account.
The cashier—an older woman with powder-pink lipstick and soft wrinkles at her eyes—rings me up and slides the bag across.
She gives me a kind smile, the kind you give someone who looks a little lost but is still trying.
I force a small one back, sign the slip, and tuck my card away like proof I can still handle something myself.
The parking lot is hot enough to melt skin. I squint as we step out, grateful for the tinted windows of the black SUV. Dima opens the trunk, silently loads the bag of cat food and the vitamins I don’t need.
Then he pulls out his phone.
His brow knots slightly. He mutters something in Russian. Then, clearly, into the mic: “Da.”
Whatever he hears back makes his jaw tighten.
“We go,” he says shortly.
Something in the air changes. A switch I don’t understand, but feel all the same. The easy, blank Dima—wall-staring, vitamin-aisle Dima—is gone, replaced by something sharp and coiled. My stomach flips because if he’s on edge, I probably should be terrified.
The ride back to the penthouse is silent.
No music. No small talk. His grip on the wheel stays tight, knuckles pale against the leather.
He checks the mirrors more than usual, eyes cutting to the side streets, lingering too long on passing cars.
Every turn feels measured, every stop deliberate, like he’s expecting someone to be right behind us.
When we pull up to the apartment block, he parks in the underground garage. Walks me up. Brings the bag into the apartment as always. But something’s different.
He doesn’t hover.
He sets the bag down, glances toward me, then heads to the door.
“Stay in,” he says firmly. “Don’t go anywhere. No matter what.”
“What—why? Dima, what—?”
He’s already out the door.
The door clicks shut. And it’s just me.
And Gordo.
Who is now dramatically dragging his empty ceramic bowl across the tile like he’s in some kind of feline prison documentary.
“Okay, okay,” I mutter, opening the bag. “God forbid I delay your second dinner.”
He meows, affronted. Then starts inhaling food like a vacuum with fur.
I rub my face. Head to the bathroom. Strip out of my sweaty clothes and step into the shower.
The hot water feels like a reset button. Except it doesn’t reset anything. I still feel raw. Exposed. Like the Plan B box is still watching me from that shelf in the store.
I towel off. Change into clean clothes. Pull open the drawer.
The bracelet.
The watch.
I stare at them. Fingertips hovering. Like maybe they’ll tell me something Dima wouldn’t.
But they’re just there. Cold. Silent.
I sit on the bed, damp hair dripping down my back, and call the only person who still makes sense.
“Hey, Grandma,” I say when she picks up. “How are you feeling today?”
She launches into a story about her neighbor’s stolen garden gnome, and I let her talk. Let her ground me.
Then she asks, “How are you, baby?”
And I almost lie. Almost say “I’m fine.” But it comes out like: “I don’t know.”
Because I don’t.
When we hang up, I stare at the door. At the empty apartment. The clock on the wall.
I should go back. Get the pill. Just in case.
But Dima’s words echo in my head.
Don’t go anywhere.
Something is happening.
And I don’t know what.
I straighten the last pillow on the couch. Not because it needs it—just because I need something to do with my hands.
Gordo follows me, tail flicking, like he suspects I might open tuna by accident. Every time I stop moving, he bumps my ankle with his head and stares up like he expects answers.
Join the club, buddy.
The dishwasher hums softly behind me. The drawer still holds the watch and bracelet, tucked exactly where I left them after drying off and changing. I haven’t looked again. Haven’t touched them. Just shut it and walked away.
It’s been a few hours since we got back. I’ve wiped the counters twice. Rearranged the contents of the fridge like it’s a puzzle I might one day solve. Checked the peephole. Once.
Twice.
Now I drift barefoot toward the kitchen like I’m sleepwalking. The floor feels cool under my toes. My hair’s dry, finally, and I’m wearing the soft pajama shorts I found folded in the laundry room like some kind of Bratva welcome gift.
The apartment is too quiet.
No Dima. No Anton. No random Bratva dude assembling weapons on the coffee table.
Just silence, cold and echoey, broken only by the hum of the fridge and the occasional soft thump of Gordo flopping down dramatically against the balcony door like he needs fresh air to digest his meal.
I peek out.
He’s out there now, sprawled across one of the outdoor lounge chairs, belly-up, paws twitching in his sleep. The wind ruffles his fur softly.
At least someone’s thriving.
I check my phone. Two bars. No new messages.
A second later, a text pops through from Grandma. It’s a blurry photo of her dinner plate. Some kind of stew with biscuits on the side. Ruth’s elbow is visible in the corner, mid-fork.
GramCracker: Ruth came over. We made beef tips. I told her you’re learning to shoot people now. She said that tracks. ?????
I huff a laugh, a smile tugging at my mouth before I can stop it.
At least Grandma’s happy.
I’m thumbing out a reply when a call comes in. Essie.
“Hey,” I answer, settling onto a stool at the kitchen island. “I was gonna call you later.”
“Mija, I’m so sorry,” she rushes out. “I was trying to find someone who could check on Gordo this weekend so I could fly back, but I can’t. I really can’t leave right now.”
My stomach dips. “What happened?”
“It’s Manny,” she says, breath catching. “His incision site got infected. They had to reopen it and keep him for observation. I’m staying here until at least next month.”
“Oh no. Is he okay?”
“He will be. They’ve got him on antibiotics. But he’s scared, and I-I just can’t leave him yet. I’m so sorry about this. I didn’t mean to dump my problems on you.”
“Essie,” I interrupt, warm but firm. “You didn’t. Gordo’s basically living in a five-star cat resort with unlimited balcony naps. He’s not complaining.”
I flip the camera around and snap a picture of Gordo in his current state—sunset glow, limbs in the air, stomach fully exposed.
I send the pic with a caption:
The prince approves.
Essie lets out a watery laugh. “He really does like you, huh?”
“Only because I gave him tuna-flavored bribes.”
“Still. Thank you, Mary. I mean it.”
We say our goodbyes, promise to text soon, and hang up.
The second the call ends, the quiet wraps back around me like a too-heavy blanket.
I stare at my phone.
Nothing from Anton. No check-in. No warning. Just… nothing.
My stomach rumbles, loud and rude. I press a hand over it like that’ll shut it up. There’s too much noise in my head to think about food anyway.
I glance at the door, then back at my screen. He said I’d start training tomorrow. Early. But now I’m not sure what that means. Who’s training me? Him? Dima?
Is he even coming back?
Or am I just supposed to wait around like furniture and figure it out?
A quiet ache settles behind my ribs. Not sharp. Just… there. That hollow feeling you get when someone’s left the room and taken all the air with them.
I tap the keyboard.
Hey, are you okay?
No. Too clingy.
Delete.
Is something going on?
Too vague.
Delete.
Are you mad at me?
God.
I close my eyes. Then delete again.
It’s fine. He’s fine.
Except… what if he’s not?
What if whatever made Dima go full Ice Mission earlier was something serious? A threat? A hit? A warning?
What if Anton’s in danger?
He kills people. People might be trying to kill him right now.
What if I never see him again?
The thought lands somewhere behind my ribs—low, dull, and surprisingly sharp at the same time. Like something I’ve been trying not to feel finally caught up to me.
Because this isn’t some hot barista I’m crushing on. This is Anton Malikov.
And yet… The idea of him not coming back? Of never hearing his voice again? It knocks the breath out of me more than I want to admit.
Not because I’m in love with him. That would be insane. But because somewhere between the threats and the chaos and the way he looked at me like I wasn’t weak… I started to feel safe around him.
Maybe even seen. And if he disappears tonight, if something happens and he’s just… gone—
I’ll never get to ask what that meant.
I remember the way he looked after dinner. That flicker of something when I said sorry. Like I touched a part of him that wasn’t meant to be touched.
My fingers hover over my phone screen again.
I didn’t mean to make things weird.
Delete.
Please be careful.
Send.
I set the phone down and walk away before I embarrass myself any further.
The silence stretches.
I grab a throw blanket off the back of the couch, toss it over myself, and sit. Try to breathe through it.
I close my eyes, whispering into the dark like he could somehow hear me. “Come back to me.”
The words slip out before I can stop them. Too raw. Too true. Because the real nightmare isn’t him staying in my life. It’s him not coming back at all.