Chapter 14
Mary
“And… what about you?”
The words hit my ears like they’re moving through molasses.
I forgot where I am.
Right. Diner. Two streets from my workplace Booth. Sticky red vinyl. Coffee cup sweating rings into a paper placemat.
And me? I’m stuck in the middle seat of hell. Anton is pressed against my right side like a human wall. Dima is blocking my exit on the left, jaw swollen. Lev sits sprawled across from us, bandage slapped over his temple, a scrape running down his cheek like he tried to French kiss the pavement.
If I didn’t know them, I’d think they’d just walked away from a car crash. Or a bar fight. Or something equally dangerous that they’ll never actually tell me about.
The waitress’s eyes flick from their bruised faces down to me, wedged between them like the world’s saddest club sandwich. Her chewing slows. For a split second, she looks like she’s wondering if she should call 911.
Dima’s scowl could melt glass. He hasn’t even touched the menu, just keeps drumming his fingers against the table like each tap is a threat. If eye contact could kill, the salt shaker would already be in the morgue.
I make the mistake of snorting. Quiet. Not quiet enough.
Dima’s head jerks toward me, and for one second, I swear I see the thought flash across his face: Can I kill her with this spoon?
Lev grins, lip split from the impact. “Relax, printsessa. He’s not going to stab you before coffee.”
The waitress clears her throat, snapping me back. “So… side of bacon or sausage, hon?”
“Oh. Uh…” My eyelids weigh a thousand pounds. My whole body feels like it’s made of expired Jell-O.
“Both?”
She scribbles, gum snap echoing, but as she slides my coffee back in front of me, I notice something tucked under the cup.
A note.
In loopy waitress handwriting: You okay? Need me to blink twice for you?
I almost choke on my own spit.
I glance at Anton.
Anton doesn’t notice. Neither does Dima. They’ve slipped into deep Russian, low and fast, voices cutting sharp edges I don’t understand. The kind of conversation you know you don’t want translated.
The waitress is still hovering by the counter, pretending to refill a sugar jar but very obviously watching me like she’s about to stage a rescue mission.
My pulse jumps. I can’t exactly flash the note without getting shot, so I do the only thing I can think of—give her the world’s most unconvincing thumbs-up.
Her brows shoot up, then she shakes her head like, “Girl, you’re on your own.”
Lev is leaning back, chair tipped, one ear cocked toward Anton and Dima. For once, he isn’t cracking jokes. He’s listening hard. Which is weird enough on its own, but what’s weirder? Dima’s actually talking. A lot. Words tumbling out, fast and sharp.
I’ve never heard him say more than ten words in English at a time, and suddenly he’s some Russian motor-mouth. Maybe it was a language barrier all along. Or maybe he’s just so pissed off, even vowels can’t hold him back.
A pair of tourists at the next booth catch a string of those harsh syllables and immediately stand up, shuffling two tables over with their pancakes like they’re fleeing a gas leak. They try to make it discreet. Spoiler: it isn’t.
Anton’s expression is stone. Cold. Like even the chipped Formica table is beneath his attention. And that’s when it clicks—they’re using Russian on purpose. Not just to keep me out, but to keep everyone out.
A diner full of old men in trucker caps and ladies ordering pancakes, and all I can hear is Anton’s voice sounding like it belongs in a basement interrogation scene.
Everything is dangerous. Even breakfast.
And I can’t stop replaying the words I heard before I barged into their little pow-wow earlier:
We hit back.
The phrase rolls around in my head like a marble in a dryer.
Hit back… how? Hit who back? With a lawsuit? A passive-aggressive Yelp review?
No. Knowing them, “hit back” probably involves guns, fire, and someone’s kneecaps not surviving the day.
The clatter of plates interrupts my mental disaster spiral. Our waitress returns, balancing three dishes up her arm like a pro. She’s careful, though, giving me one last “Are you safe? Blink twice” glance before setting everything down.
Lev’s plate is an artery’s worst nightmare: a triple-stack of pancakes drowning in butter, bacon piled like firewood, and something that might once have been eggs hiding under the debris.
Dima gets steak and eggs—medium rare steak, of course, because God forbid he eats anything that isn’t bleeding.
Anton? Black coffee. Just black coffee. Because of course.
My plate lands in front of me. Scrambled eggs, toast, one sad slice of ham, bacon, and sausage. My stomach growls so loudly it could qualify for the bass section in a choir.
Lev snorts out a laugh, nearly choking on his water. Anton glances over at me, one eyebrow lifted.
“What?” I shoot back, defensive, clutching my fork like it’s Exhibit A. “This isn’t even enough to cover half the cardio your boss put me through this morning.”
Lev cackles. Dima just scowls deeper.
And me? I don’t think. I stab the ham, shove it into my mouth, and chew like I haven’t seen food in a week. When I finally swallow, I notice Anton’s still watching me. Steady. Hungry. Except… maybe not just for food.
Something stupid and reckless short-circuits in my brain. Before I can stop myself, I cut a small piece of ham, balance it on the fork, and—oh, God—hold it out to him. Like I’m feeding a baby. Or worse. A boyfriend.
Silence.
The whole table freezes. Lev’s jaw drops. Dima looks like he’s calculating whether stabbing me or Anton first would be less paperwork. The waitress, mid-pour with a coffee pot, actually stops and stares like “Is this bitch for real?”
My soul leaves my body. I’m about to yank the fork back when Anton leans in. Slow. Deliberate. He opens his mouth and bites down on the ham.
Chews once. Twice. Swallows.
Never looking away from me.
Something detonates low in my stomach. Heat spreads through me so fast I almost forget how to breathe.
Holy. Fuck.
The bell above the door jingles, snapping the spell.
Boris.
He looks rough. Bruise blooming along his jaw, a faint cut at his hairline, shirt wrinkled like he slept in it—or didn’t sleep at all. But if it bothers him, he doesn’t show it.
“Smells like heaven,” he mutters, eyeing the plates. “Good man, Lev. Knew you’d order for me.”
Lev winks. “Stack of pancakes. Extra syrup. Just the way you like it, dorogoy.”
Boris grins, already snagging a piece of bacon off Lev’s plate before the waitress even circles back with his.
Then his attention shifts. To me.
He reaches into his jacket, pulls out two tiny black devices, no bigger than matchbooks, and slides them across the table until they stop in front of my plate.
My brain short-circuits.
For a moment, I just blink at them, scrambled eggs steaming beside what look suspiciously like props from a Mission: Impossible sequel. Then— Oh. Right.
This is it. The change. Not the USB anymore. Now my job is simpler. Or scarier, depending on how you look at it.
Sneak into Caleb’s office. Find a place. Drop the devices. Walk away like I didn’t just plant Russian spyware in my regional vice president’s personal space.
No pressure.
I slide the devices into my bag as discreetly as possible, praying the waitress doesn’t come back at that exact second to ask if I want more coffee.
That’s when my phone buzzes against the table.
I freeze.
It’s face-up beside my plate, right next to the toast I’ve barely touched. The screen lights up bright enough to spotlight me, and there it is in bold white letters: Incoming FaceTime – Jasper.
Oh, God.
Of course he would call now, when I’m sandwiched between Anton Malikov, Dima the Destroyer, Lev the Chaos Gremlin, and Boris the Gadget Guy—with actual espionage hardware rattling against my lip gloss in my bag.
My pulse spikes. I fumble for the phone, flip it over so the screen faces down, and shove it closer to my coffee cup like I can smother the problem with caffeine.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
It keeps vibrating against the Formica, loud enough that the whole table feels it. My toast jiggles like it’s in an earthquake.
“Someone’s calling you,” Anton says flatly, without looking away from his coffee. Like I needed the reminder.
I clamp my lips together, praying it stops. It doesn’t.
With my luck, Jasper will keep calling until Anton confiscates my phone and hurls it into traffic, so I snatch it back up and swipe to answer—switching it to voice call only, like that’ll somehow make me less exposed.
“Good morning, sugar tits!” Jasper’s voice blasts through the speaker, so bright and chirpy it physically hurts. “Guess who’s back in town? Me! Are you at work yet? No, wait, don’t tell me. Let’s do lunch, I’ve got SO much to spill—”
I mash the phone tighter to my ear, whisper-hissing, “Can I call you back—?”
He barrels right over me. “Ugh, you sound half-dead. Did you go out last night? Are you still in bed? Or… wait—” There’s a pause. “Are you… eating? At a diner? Sunrise Diner, maybe?”
My fork slips out of my hand and clatters onto the plate. My eyes widen to dinner-plate size. I whip my head around the diner.
No Jasper.
Lev, Boris, Dima, and Anton do the same, in perfect unison, like I’m the conductor of the world’s grumpiest boy band. Anton’s eyebrow ticks up and he holds my gaze, like he’s about to ask me something I absolutely don’t want to answer.
And then—knock, knock, knock.
On the window.
Holy mother of all badly timed plot twists
I gasp.
Jasper is right there, pressed against the glass like a Broadway villain, waggling his eyebrows at me.
Then his gaze drops. To the table. To the literal mafia men boxed in around me.
I freeze. Jasper blinks. Slow. His expression morphs into pure soap opera shock.
He cups his hands around his mouth and shouts through the glass:
“Are you in the middle of a gangbang breakfast?”