Chapter 26
Mary
Punch his face. Punch his smug, gorgeous, green-eyed, I‘m-too-dangerous-for-domestics face.
“Faster,” Dima rumbles, holding the pads higher.
I plant my feet, pivot, throw another jab-cross like he drilled me.
My knuckles sting through the wraps, sweat dripping into my eyes, and still it isn’t enough.
Nothing is enough. Not when my chest is still raw from Monday night.
Not when every time I blink, I see him walking away while I stood there crying like a pathetic idiot.
“Again,” Dima orders.
I grit my teeth and slam another combo into the pads. Left hook. Right cross. Step back. Breathe. The slap of leather echoes through the empty gym, louder than my heartbeat, louder than my thoughts.
He shifts, testing me, moving the pads just out of reach. “Use your hips. Drive from here.” His massive hand taps my waist.
I adjust. Twist harder. The punch lands with a crack that makes my shoulders jolt.
“Yes.” He nods once, like the nod is worth more than a gold medal.
I jab again. My arms are shaking, sweat dripping down the back of my neck, tank top plastered to me like glue. But I keep going. Because stopping means thinking. And thinking means Anton.
Anton, who decided I wasn’t good enough to eat pasta with.
Anton, who can’t even look at me but apparently can send his giant soldier to play trainer.
Anton, who makes my chest hurt in ways I don’t want to put words to.
Dima suddenly jerks forward, throwing a slow right hook at my head. Reflex takes over; I get my glove up in time, but the angle’s wrong, and my own fist smacks me in the cheek.
“Ow.” My voice comes out muffled against the wrap. I shake my head, wincing. “Great. Beaten up by myself. New level unlocked.”
One of his eyebrows twitches. Which, for Dima, is basically falling on the floor laughing.
He throws another punch, sharper this time.
“Your enemies don’t stop because you are tired. They don’t care if you hit yourself.”
I duck, barely. Air rushes past my ear. My legs burn as I swing clumsily at his ribs, but he pivots like it’s nothing. My glove cuts through empty space.
“Damn it.” My arms feel like lead, my body dragging behind my brain. I’m so keyed up on adrenaline and spite that I forget the part where I actually need to connect.
Tomorrow. The gala. The word hisses through my head like static.
The dress code Caleb texted me, the luxury hotel—The Bellagio the one with the gold ceilings and the high-roller casino tucked behind mirrored walls.
All I can see is glitter and strangers’ eyes on me.
And Caleb smiling that too-smooth smile like he already owns me.
I stumble.
That’s all Dima needs. He hooks his leg behind my ankle and sweeps. I jolt back, arms windmilling, barely catching myself on the ropes.
“Focus,” he snaps.
“I am.” My breath saws out of me, half-laugh, half-snarl. “Just… not on this exact second, apparently.”
He tilts his head, dark eyes pinning me like he can see straight through my skull. Like he knows exactly where my thoughts went. He doesn’t push, though. Just steps back, pads raised again, waiting.
So I unload. Every jab, every hook, every pathetic burst of fury at him, at Anton, at tomorrow, at myself for still giving a damn. I hit until my shoulders scream and my lungs feel like I swallowed fire.
By 7:15, my arms are noodles. My lungs are on fire. And somehow, I feel better. Not good. Just… less likely to cry or set something on fire.
Dima lowers the pads, handing me a towel.
“Strong,” he says simply. Which, coming from him, is practically poetry.
“Strongly pissed off,” I mutter, wiping sweat off my face.
His mouth quirks, almost a smile. “Good. Use it.”
I drop onto the bench, gulp water from a bottle, and try to remember who the hell I was a week ago. Not this person. Not the girl who trains like she’s in Rocky before breakfast.
Speaking of breakfast, my new job apparently includes that too.
Because of course it does. Boris makes sure to remind me every night what groceries are running low, like I’m suddenly his personal Costco delivery. Lev demands pancakes “with personality,” whatever the hell that means, like I’m auditioning for Top Chef: Mob Edition.
And Anton? Yeah, Anton once laid down the holy commandment: don’t cook for his men. Like he’s some Old Testament god of takeout. Well, fuck him. I’m cooking anyway. Call it petty rebellion. Call it survival. Either way, it’s mine. A middle finger dressed up as scrambled eggs.
Turns out Mary Sullivan does rebellion with butter and frying pans. Who knew?
By 7:30, I’m back in the penthouse, hair damp, skin still buzzing from the workout. The kitchen is quiet, too quiet, and Gordo greets me first, tail flicking, eyes half-closed, like he owns the damn place.
I’ll shower and get breakfast ready for the boys.
The boys. The thought actually makes me stop mid-step in the hall and press the towel harder to my neck. Since when do I have boys?
I used to have a couple of sad little basil plants on my windowsill. Half-dead most of the time, hanging on by guilt-watering and cheap potting soil. Now I’ve got a trio of mafia enforcers expecting eggs on demand. Life comes at you fast.
In the bathroom, steam fogs the mirror before the water even runs hot.
I peel off the tank top, the sports bra stuck to my ribs with sweat.
My skin blooms red under the light, small purple blotches already forming along my arms where Dima’s pads caught me wrong.
They don’t hurt, not really. They look like proof.
I lean closer. My shoulders seem straighter. My waist tighter. There’s a firmness under the bruises I don’t remember seeing before.
I twist, catching the mirror at a new angle.
Well. Hello there.
My ass—my very average, don’t-look-twice ass—actually looks… perkier? Higher? Squats, you sneaky bastards.
I force out a laugh, then shake my head. Because who am I kidding? No one’s here to notice. No one’s going to whistle or grab me around the waist or tell me I look good enough to eat.
Not anymore.
The thought digs in like a thorn. I drag my gaze back to the front, to the faint bloat in my stomach. My hand presses over it, hard. Must’ve been the protein bar I choked down after training. Or maybe just too much salt.
I repeat it in my head until the words lose their shape, but the unease clings anyway.
The shower hisses when I step under it. Scalding. I let it burn the sweat off, let it turn my skin pink where the bruises don’t already mark me. My head tips back, eyes closed, and for a second, I let myself feel the water the way I used to feel comfort: like it could rinse away more than dirt.
It doesn’t.
By the time I towel off, my chest still feels hollow.
I pull on a fresh T-shirt and jeans, tug socks up over my ankles, then stare at the pile of damp clothes slumped on the floor like they’re mocking me.
They’re proof too. Proof that I’m not the girl I was a week ago.
Proof that I can throw punches, take hits, sweat out anger instead of swallowing it.
Proof that I’m someone else now.
I catch myself in the mirror again. My hair hangs damp around my shoulders. My lips are still swollen from biting them while I hit Dima’s pads like they were a substitute for all the things I can’t say out loud.
It’s ridiculous, but I hear Anton’s voice still. His words stick like gum on the bottom of my shoe. Ugly. Annoying. Impossible to scrape off. Not here to play house.
It hits lower than my ribs, a dull sore spot I can’t rub out. Like a pulled muscle in my chest, the kind that lingers no matter how much you stretch. I can almost feel it there—tight, raw, stupid. That ache you get when you let yourself want something you were never promised.
What did I expect? That he’d smile at me across the kitchen like some normal guy, thank me for dinner, maybe even kiss my forehead?
Idiot.
This is on me. I signed myself up for this crash course in humiliation. I knew what he was from the start—danger wrapped in a suit and scars—and I still built castles in my head out of pasta and garlic butter.
I yank the towel tighter around my hair, and scowl at the damp, blotchy reflection staring back.
“Fuck him,” I whisper.
When I turn, Gordo is sitting square in the middle of the wooden floor, loafed up like he’s fresh out of an oven. Round, smug, every inch the bread loaf he thinks he is.
“Were you eavesdropping, Gordo?”
He doesn’t blink. Just stares at me, slow and steady, like he’s cataloguing all my pathetic choices and finding none of them impressive.
“Right. Of course you were.” I sigh, dropping the towel on the chair. “Add that to the list of people who think I’m an idiot.”
I glance down at my wrist out of habit. Bare skin. No watch, no bracelet. The ones Anton put there are still sitting on the nightstand, untouched. I don’t want them this morning. Not when the air still tastes like his words. Not when the memory of them presses harder than metal ever could.
I don’t want him listening in. Don’t want anyone listening in.
Gordo shifts. His whole body stiffens, ears snapping forward like twin radar dishes. He stares at the door, a little rumble low in his throat.
Three sharp raps, deliberate against the doorframe.
Then—tud, tud, tud.
My heart jumps into my throat.
Anton’s warning hammers in my head—if someone knocks, it’s not us.
My pulse spikes. For a second, I see the whole thing: strangers on the other side, guns raised, the end of me in a hallway.
Another knock. Lighter this time. Patient.
Then a voice: “Mary. It’s us.” Dima. Solid and steady.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, my hand pressed flat to my chest.
When I crack the door, they’re all there. Dima, towering as usual. Lev slouched with his trademark grin, like he’s already planning to steal something off my plate. And Boris, clutching a paper sack that smells suspiciously like pastries.
“You… knocked,” I say, blinking.
Lev’s grin widens, lazy and sharp at once. “We’re here for breakfast. Your specialty. Pancakes.” He tips his chin toward the kitchen like it’s already decided. “We’ve got manners, sunshine.”
“Didn’t want to startle you,” Boris adds with a shrug, the bag crinkling in his grip. Casual, but not unkind. There’s even a flicker of something almost… considerate in his eyes.
Dima doesn’t add anything. Just waits, his shoulders filling the frame, presence solid as a wall.
It’s a small thing. A stupid thing. But it lands deep anyway. Because they don’t have to. They don’t have to knock, or explain, or look at me like I’m someone worth not scaring half to death. They’re supposed to be killers, and yet here they are—more careful with me than Anton ever was.
And that’s the problem. The more they treat me like I belong, the harder it’s going to be to remember that I don’t.