Chapter 28
Mary
I push through the door of NOIR, and the cold air hits me immediately. The AC is cranked so high I actually shiver. After thirty seconds outside, it feels like heaven.
NOIR is all white marble and gold fixtures. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors everywhere. The kind of place where you’re afraid to touch anything. The massive black letters spelling NOIR glow on the back wall, backlit and dramatic.
Jasper is in the center, steaming a gown. Blond hair perfect, black silk shirt rolled at the sleeves. He looks up when the door chimes.
Sees me.
Smiles.
Then sees Dima, Lev, and Boris filing in behind me.
His smile freezes.
”Did you bring your own security,” he says slowly, “or are we under new management?”
I want to disappear into the floor.
“They’re just… coming along,” I manage.
Lev grins and heads straight for the champagne display. “Shopping is dangerous. We protect.”
Jasper blinks. “From what, a rogue sequin?”
“You’d be surprised,” Boris mutters.
Dima doesn’t say anything. Just stands there, hands clasped in front of him, scanning the room like he’s expecting an ambush.
Jasper takes a long sip of his champagne.
“Mary, darling. When you said you’d come by, I didn’t realize you meant with an entourage.”
“They’re friends. Protective friends.”
Jasper sets down his glass and tilts his head.
“Sugar tits. We’ve been best friends since you threw up on my light-up sneakers in third grade.
I know your coffee order, your menstrual cycle, and the fact that you once cried so hard when your basil plant died that you held a funeral for it in your kitchen sink.
You don’t do ‘protective friends.‘ So who the hell are these people and why do they look like Secret Service for someone actually important?”
I glance over my shoulder.
Three pairs of eyes meet mine—Lev pretending to examine a mannequin’s neckline, Boris pretending not to drink the champagne straight from the bottle, and Dima pretending he’s not about to body-check a sales associate for walking too close.
“Guys,” I murmur, forcing a tight smile. “Maybe give us a few minutes?”
Lev arches a brow. “You sure?”
“Positive.”
Boris lowers the glass, frowns. “We’ll be right outside.”
“Thank you,” I say, too sweetly, the universal female code for please stop making this weirder than it already is.
They move—slowly, reluctantly—until the door shuts behind them. The boutique goes quiet again, humming with faint jazz and expensive perfume.
Jasper’s watching me the whole time. Arms folded. The corner of his mouth twitches.
Then, with the same energy he’d use to announce a scandal at brunch, he says, “Okay. Level with me.”
I blink. “About?”
He takes one deliberate step closer. “You’re either in a cult, on the run, or you secretly married someone rich and terrifying.” He tilts his head. “Please say it’s the last one. I could use a yacht.”
“Jas—”
“No, no.” He holds up a manicured finger. “You walk in here with three men who look like they smuggle diamonds in their luggage, call them friends, and expect me not to ask questions? Honey, I love you, but I’m nosy and deeply unemployed before noon.”
I groan, rubbing my temples. “It’s complicated.”
“Oh, I adore that word.” He circles me, examining me the way he does a hemline. “Complicated means there’s a story. So, start at the beginning. Who’s the ringleader? Blondie? Tall, dark, and brooding? Or the one who looks like he codes for the CIA?”
“None of them.”
Jasper gasps theatrically. “You did marry someone, didn’t you?” His hand flies to his chest. “Tell me I at least get to be maid of honor. Wait… Don’t tell me it was an arranged situation. Mary Sullivan, did you marry for—oh, my God—protection?”
My silence answers for me.
Jasper’s grin fades. “Oh, holy Prada.”
I sink onto the nearest velvet bench, staring at my hands.
“It’s not what it sounds like.”
“Then make it sound better.”
“I can’t.”
He exhales, long and low. The teasing leaves his face, replaced by quiet worry. “Mary… who are these men, really?”
I swallow hard. “They’re—”
The door chime sings again, and before I can get another word out, a whirlwind of perfume, flashbulbs, and too-white teeth bursts through the entrance.
“Oh, my God, Jasper!” A tall woman in a rhinestone baseball cap and oversized sunglasses floats in like she has rights over the oxygen.
Her assistant trails behind, juggling garment bags and a tablet.
“Tell me my dress is ready. TMZ said I’m walking the carpet at six and if I show up looking like a suburban divorcée again, my agent will spontaneously combust.”
Jasper doesn’t even look up. “Hello, Crystal.”
“It’s Krystahl now.”
“Of course it is.” He still doesn’t look up; he’s watching me, arms crossed, one perfectly groomed brow raised.
The assistant pipes up nervously, “She has a fitting in fifteen, Mr. Jasper, and—”
“Reschedule it.” He waves a hand, eyes never leaving mine. “Tell her Mercury’s in retrograde and I refuse to be complicit in chaos.”
Krystahl blinks, offended. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me, darling.” Jasper finally turns toward her, tone dripping sugar and steel. “You’ll survive. I’m having a mental health moment with my best friend.”
“But—”
“Go hydrate. Maybe eat something green. We’ll circle back.”
The assistant opens his mouth, then closes it again when Jasper shoots him a glare so sharp it could slice couture. They retreat in a cloud of scandalized silence and expensive body spray.
The door closes behind them.
Jasper exhales through his nose. “Now,” he says quietly, stepping closer. “Start again. From the part where you accidentally joined the mafia, or whatever this is.”
I stare at him, half wanting to laugh, half wanting to cry.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
He drops into the seat beside me, silk shirt gleaming under the boutique lights, voice soft now.
“Mary, I design gowns for women who marry billionaires with pet tigers. Try me.”
Jasper doesn’t blink for a full five seconds after I finish. Five entire seconds of pure silence, during which I swear I can hear the boutique’s air-conditioning judging me.
Then— He blinks once. Slowly. Like his brain’s trying to reboot.
“Okay,” he says, in that deceptively calm tone that means the volcano’s about to erupt. “So. Let me recap.”
He counts on his fingers. “One—your creepy manager, Dave, is dead. Dead-dead, not like took-a-sabbatical-to-find-himself-in-Bali dead.”
He raises a second. “Two—the mystery man who was supposed to be my quiet, perfectly behaved subletter turned out to be,” he leans forward, voice dropping to a whisper, “a Russian mobster?”
“Kind of,” I admit.
He stares at me like he’s buffering. Then, very slowly, he stands. Hands on hips. Shoulders squared. Full runway stance.
“Oh my God,” he announces to the ceiling. “I rented my apartment to a Bratva assassin. I am going to be killed by the HOA. They’ll find me buried under the succulent wall.”
“Jasper—”
He starts pacing. “I could’ve been trafficked! My lemon-scented candles! My security deposit!”
“Jas!” I grab his wrist and tug him back down before he can spiral into orbit. “Sit.”
He collapses onto the velvet bench beside me, eyes huge. “And mostly—you. You getting dragged into this crazy-ass mess while I was gone—what even is this, Mary? Are they holding you hostage now? Is this, like, a Stockholm thing? Blink twice if you’re in danger.”
“Jasper.”
“Because you don’t look murdered, but you also don’t look not murdered, so forgive me if I’m confused. Explain. Slowly. Like I’m a toddler with a head injury.”
So I do.
I tell him about how everything blew up.
Lev, Dima, Boris, the desert. How Anton showed up before things went too far.
How they didn’t kill me. How they kept me alive.
How Anton made sure Grandma was safe—hired a nurse, even.
How they said they were protecting me, but how protection in their world feels a lot like being owned.
By the time I’m done, I’m hoarse. My hands ache from wringing them. I can’t look up.
When I do, Jasper looks… unhinged. His face cycles through disbelief, horror, fascination, and, finally, a sort of exhausted awe. It’s like watching a telenovela play out in real time on one man’s head.
“Okay,” he says slowly, leaning back. “So you’re telling me that while I was in Milan, you accidentally moved in on John Wick with cheekbones, got adopted by his Slavic boy band, and now you’re Cinderella-ing to a mob gala tomorrow night as the date of a man who probably has someone buried under his tennis court? ”
“Basically.” My voice comes out as a squeak.
Jasper blinks twice. His mouth drops open. Closes. Opens again.
“Mary Sullivan,” he says finally, “you’ve been living a whole premium cable miniseries behind my back.”
I groan. “Jas, please—”
“No, no, don’t you dare ‘Jas’ me. Do you have any idea how much drama I’ve been praying for in Milan? I’ve been stuck with sample sewers and socialites. Meanwhile, my best friend’s running a covert op with Russian Jason Momoa and friends.”
I choke out a laugh despite myself.
He leans forward, eyes bright now. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”
“I was trying to keep you out of it.”
“Darling,” he says, deadpan. “You’re in a Bratva thriller, and I’m the overly dramatic best friend. It’s literally my job to be involved.”
Then he sits back, folds his arms, and gives me the look—the one that used to get me to confess who stole the vodka at homecoming.
“Now. Are you in love with him yet, or just halfway to Stockholm Syndrome?”
My jaw drops. “Jasper!”
“What? I’m serious. Do I need to plan a wedding or a rescue?”
I bury my face in my hands and groan into my palms. “It’s not like that.”
“Oh, please,” Jasper gasps, hand to chest. “You’ve got that look. The post-sin glow. You’re either in love or you’ve done something unspeakably satisfying.”
I peek through my fingers. “I don’t even know what I feel, Jas. He’s—” I exhale. “He’s impossible. Cold one minute, protective the next. Like he’s allergic to emotions but addicted to saving my life.”
Jasper’s eyes narrow. “You’re sleeping with him.”
My silence answers for me.
He slaps both hands over his mouth, then lets out a strangled squeal.
“O—M—actual—G. You’re sleeping with the Bratva man!”
“Keep your voice down!”
He leans in, whisper-yelling, “How was it? Wait! Don’t tell me yet. Actually, no, tell me immediately.”
I drop my hands, glaring. “You’re insane.”
But he doesn’t laugh this time. The teasing drains from his face, replaced by something sharper. His smile falters, and he studies me—really studies me. I can almost see the gears turning behind his eyes, the moment he remembers that this isn’t one of our usual disasters. This is real. Dangerous.
“Mare. What’s the plan now?”
I blink. “Plan?”
“You know,” he says quietly, scooting closer until our knees touch. “The whole being-hunted-by-mobsters thing? You can’t just vibe your way through that, Mare.”
I laugh under my breath, hollow and small. “I don’t know, Jas. I guess I just… survive one day at a time.”
He exhales, shaky. For a second, I think he’s going to make a joke, but instead, he pulls me into a hug—hard and sudden, like he’s holding me together by force. I feel him sniff against my shoulder, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like, “I hate this for you.”
“I’m okay,” I whisper. “Really.”
He pulls back, eyes glassy. “You’re not.”
“Maybe not,” I admit. “But Anton—he won’t let me die. Not while he’s breathing.”
That does it. Jasper looks both terrified and grudgingly impressed.
“Jesus, Mare. You’re in love with a human bulletproof vest.”
My eyes snap up. Love? The word hits harder than it should. I don’t even know what this is—whatever strange gravity pulls me toward Anton like I don’t have a choice. It’s not normal. It’s not safe. But it’s real.
“I—” I start, then stop. “I don’t know.”
He studies me, and something softens in his expression. “Then maybe don’t figure it out tonight. Just—stay alive long enough to decide later, okay?”
I nod.
He releases a shaky breath, then tries to lighten the air. “So, what else has this man of mystery done besides ruining your sleep schedule?”
I huff out a breath. “He’s… done things, Jas. Dangerous things. He—” My throat tightens. “He broke Evan’s fingers.”
Jasper blinks. “What?”
“Because Evan cornered me. Tried to—” I stop, can’t finish. “Anton found me. Pulled him off. I think Evan’s hand still doesn’t bend right.”
For a second, Jasper’s face goes through all five stages of gay grief at once—shock, horror, awe, and finally, pure chaos.
He slaps both hands to his cheeks, eyes wide. “Serves that dickhead right.”
“Jasper—”
“No, I mean it.” He points at me, indignant. “That walking thumb had it coming since the day he wore cargo shorts to dinner and called them business casual.”
Despite everything, a shaky laugh slips out of me.
And maybe that’s why he does it—because he sees that laugh. That tiny crack of light. Something shifts in his face; the worry hardens into resolve.
He straightens. “Okay. Enough crying. If I can’t protect you from the Bratva, I can at least make sure you walk into that gala tomorrow like you own the damn mob.”
“Oh no,” I mutter. “What are you doing?”
He’s already pacing, fingers snapping like he’s summoning divine inspiration.
“We’re done playing scared, Mary. This is the rebrand. The resurrection arc. The glow-up heard ‘round The Strip.”
“Jas—”
He spins, eyes blazing. “We’re not crying over mob men or broken fingers anymore. We’re reclaiming the narrative. You’re walking into that gala tomorrow looking like the plot twist nobody saw coming.”
He storms toward the racks of gowns like a general leading troops.
“We’ll do silk. Maybe emerald. Dangerous but refined. Something that says ‘Yes, I’ve survived a near-death experience and still have better taste than you.’”
“I don’t need—”
He turns, deadly serious now. “You need closure couture, Mary. You’re about to face the Bratva and a ballroom full of billionaires. We’re going to make you look so good every man in the room—Anton included—will weep into his overpriced vodka.”
Then, just like that, he grins again—wicked and unstoppable.
“If we’re doing Mafia Cinderella, we’re doing it in couture.”