Chapter 15
Mary
God help me.
Jasper’s face is plastered against the glass like a deranged Disney prince who took a wrong turn at Broadway auditions.
Blond hair bleached so bright it could guide planes in for landing, blue eyes sparkling like the Mediterranean.
His jawline could slice deli meat, and the jacket he’s wearing is the kind of statement piece only Dua Lipa can pull off without looking insane.
If he weren’t gay, I would’ve already signed away my soul to be Mrs. Saint James.
I laugh. It bursts out of me, wrong and robotic.
“Ha. Ha. Ha.” I wave at him like this is normal. Like I’m not one blink away from a full-blown meltdown.
Anton, Dima, Lev, and Boris don’t laugh. Not even close. They’re still staring at him—four unblinking predators locked on a very sparkly target.
But Jasper, of course, doesn’t get it.
And why would he? He has no idea. No idea that I’m basically a hostage in a Bratva drama I didn’t sign up for.
No idea someone out there actually wants me dead.
No idea that I’m currently sleeping with the green-eyed embodiment of “do not mess with me” who just so happens to also be an important member of the Bratva.
Fuck me. Fuck shit. Fuck.
Jasper gives me a cheerful little wave and points at the diner door.
No. No, no, no, no.
Too late. Jasper sweeps inside, bell jangling overhead like a spotlight announcing trouble. Every head in the diner tilts toward him because of course it does. He doesn’t walk—he arrives.
“DARLING!” he booms the second he’s at our table, catching my hand across the Formica like we’re in a ballroom instead of surrounded by coffee mugs and ketchup bottles. Before I can yank it back, he presses a loud kiss to my knuckles.
“You didn’t tell me breakfast came with bodyguards.”
Lev actually snorts coffee through his nose. Boris blinks at Jasper like someone just invented a new species. Dima doesn’t even twitch, though I swear the air around him gets heavier.
And Anton—oh, Anton—his green eyes snap to my hand like a loaded gun.
I can feel it: that sharp, territorial flare he doesn’t voice but doesn’t bother to hide either.
Before he can decide whether or not to slice Jasper’s fingers off one by one, I yank my hand back so fast I nearly fling it into my water glass. Then I launch myself out of the booth in the world’s least graceful dramatic exit.
“This—” My voice cracks like I’m in a bad soap opera. I clear my throat and gesture wildly between them. “This is Jasper. My best friend. Since seventh grade. He’s harmless. Harmless! Unless you’re a karaoke machine, then you’re doomed, but otherwise—totally safe.”
Jasper blinks at me, offended. “Excuse you! I slay karaoke. I have witnesses.”
“See?” I squeak, nodding way too hard. “Slays karaoke, not people. Big difference.”
Lev is openly grinning now, like he’s front row at a circus. Boris raises one brow but keeps eating his pancake. Dima… Well, Dima just looks like he’s weighing the odds of killing Jasper quickly versus efficiently.
Anton doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches me with that steady, cutting focus that says I am one bad sentence away from regret.
I plaster on a manic smile, still standing, still blocking Jasper with my entire body like a very small, very underqualified human shield.
“My best friend,” I repeat for emphasis, eyes darting between all of them. “Jasper Saint James. Totally not a threat. Totally not a problem. Totally not, you know, someone whose hand you need to… um… detach from his arm.”
Jasper tilts his head at me, smirking. “Darling, are you… introducing me, or auditioning for witness protection?”
Before I can answer, he nudges me aside and thrusts out a perfectly manicured hand.
“I’m Jasper Saint James,” he announces. “Best friend, emergency contact, and the one who’s been cleaning up Mary’s disasters since seventh grade. Nobody loves her more, nobody gets to hurt her, and if you try,” he flashes a smile sharp enough to sting, “you’ll have to deal with me first.”
Boris takes his hand on instinct. “Boris,” he says. A beat. Then, deadpan: “Noted.”
Lev wheezes into his napkin.
Jasper slides right in beside Boris like he owns the booth and the deed. He gestures at the pancake. “Are we sharing? I don’t do carbs before Milan, but it’s a Vegas emergency.”
“You were in Milan,” I remind him, like that explains anything about why he’s here now, at my table, in my crisis. I take a seat, returning to my breakfast.
“Was,” he says, eyes flicking like he’s speed-scanning my entire personal nightmare. “Am now here. Back in town. Long story. Also,” Jasper leans across the table and points a dramatic finger at me, “I can hear your heartbeat from space, buttercup. What did you do?”
My fork freezes mid-air. “What… what do you mean?”
Jasper heaves the world’s most theatrical sigh, grabs Lev’s coffee without asking, takes a swig, and winces.
“Jesus. That’s battery acid. Do you not love yourself?
” He sets it back in front of Lev like he just took a bullet for him.
Then he pins me with those eyes, the ones that can read my soul like a CVS receipt.
The unspoken exchange between us goes something like: Me: Shut up, you’re embarrassing me. Him: You’re lying through your Brunello Cucinelli blazer Me: They’re customers. Him: Customers who look like they bury other customers.
I force my lips into a smile that feels like dental surgery. “They’re… my customers.”
Jasper’s eyebrow arches so high it’s about to touch the ceiling fan.
“Customers. Really.” His gaze sweeps over Anton, who’s dressed in black like death personified. Then Boris, who looks like a Slavic bear in a zip-up. Then Dima, who literally looks like he murdered someone before breakfast. Finally, Lev, still smirking through syrup.
“Darling,” Jasper purrs. “If these are your customers, then I’m a Victoria’s Secret Angel.”
“You could be,” Lev says, grinning. “We’d give you wings.”
“See? He gets it,” Jasper fires back, finger guns at Lev. “I like him. He’s hired.”
Anton finally moves. Just his jaw tightening, but I catch it. He does not like Jasper cozying up to the table, does not like the easy banter, does not like the way Jasper kisses me on the cheek like he owns me.
And weirdly? That little jealous spark in his eyes? Yeah, I feel it. And yeah, I’m not hating it.
I laugh again, too high-pitched. “Nothing. Just… breakfast. Pancakes. Syrup.” I shove my plate forward like carbs can cover secrets. “And I’m late for work, so, um—everybody up. Out. Shoo.”
Anton doesn’t bristle. Doesn’t snap. He just watches me, head tilted the barest degree, and for one terrifying second, I think he looks… impressed. Like I’ve surprised him. Like this is a side of me he didn’t expect.
Even Jasper seems thrown. Fierce Mary has entered the chat.
“Go,” I hiss, yanking my purse strap over my shoulder. “All of you. I have a job, remember? Like a normal human being?”
Lev grins, tossing Jasper a wink on his way out. “Nice meeting you, Angel.”
Jasper clutches his chest. “I’m going to need a cigarette after this.”
Dima and Boris follow, silent shadows sliding past.
Anton lingers, eyes locked on mine, a silent promise that I’m not shaking him off so easily. My pulse stumbles. Then he turns and stalks after the others, leaving me alone with Jasper, who immediately rounds on me.
“Okay,” he breathes, fanning himself with Lev’s abandoned napkin.
“So, I leave for Milan for… what? Twenty-six days, tops. I come back into town to find you,” he gestures vaguely at the booth, at the plates, at the ghosts of four very illegal men, “hosting brunch with what looked like a hit-squad audition for GQ. Tattoos. Boots polished within an inch of their lives. One of them literally wiped syrup off his Glock with a napkin, Mare. What the actual fuck?”
Shit. What do I tell him? Jasper’s too sharp; he’ll cut straight through me. And I can’t risk him getting dragged into the same danger that’s already breathing down my neck.
“I told you…” My fingers twist the Cartier watch on my wrist, then the bracelet stacked beside it. Cold metal bites against my skin, a reminder that I’m not alone here—not really. He could be listening. Right now.
“They’re… customers,” I whisper.
“Customers.” Jasper’s laugh is bone-dry.
“Darling, unless you’ve switched to managing accounts for Murder, Inc.
, those were not customers. That was a lineup.
” His gaze flicks down, catching on the watch.
One brow arches. “Since when do you accessorize in Cartier? Did I miss a personality transplant while I was gone?”
My pulse skips. I grab my mug, desperate for distraction, but it’s empty. I cough into it like an idiot and slam it back down, sighing hard enough to fog glass.
“They’re just—” My throat jams. “They’re… friends.”
“Friends.” He drags the word out like it’s been marinated in bleach. Then he leans closer, eyes glittering. “Friends who all look like they could bench-press a small car? Friends who don’t even blink when I sit down at their table? Mare, I’ve met your book club. These are not your book club.”
“Ha, ha, ha.” The sound scrapes out of me so fake that even my jaw cramps from the effort. I push my chair back, check the Cartier watch like it’s suddenly screaming at me. I’m late. Of course I’m late.
“I have to go.” I snatch my purse, already half-standing. “Work. Normal job. Remember? I’ll… I’ll catch you up when the time’s right.”
“When the time’s right?” His brows shoot up. “You sound like someone about to announce a pregnancy at Thanksgiving.”
“I’m serious, Jas.” My voice comes out tighter than I want. “Not now. Please.”
He watches me, quiet for once, then tilts his head, lips curving into that sharp little smile that says he’s already dissected every nerve in my body.
“Darling. Please. Are you sleeping with the man who stared at you like you were the last sin left on earth?”