Chapter 31
Mary
“Are you sure my tits are supposed to be this… committed?”
Jasper freezes mid-eyeliner, his brush hovering like a loaded weapon.
“Committed? Darling, they’re starring in the movie. The rest of you is just supporting cast.”
I look down. The emerald satin is hanging on like it has rent to pay.
“If I inhale too hard, I’ll file an insurance claim.”
“Perfect. Fashion should hurt a little. It builds moral character.” He leans back, studying me like a sculptor with trust issues. “Now, lift your chin—confident, not mugshot.”
Three of Jasper’s “glam militia” swarm me—curling iron, body shimmer, and perfume fog thick enough to baptize a small country. I’m half human, half aerosol.
The dressing room smells like foundation, nerves, and citrus champagne. My phone’s face-down on the counter because I don’t want to see another text from Caleb. Because every time his name pops up, I feel like someone just slid a contract across the table that I’m already signing in blood.
The screen lights anyway.
I stare at it for a second, debating. Then, because I’m apparently a masochist, I flip it over.
Caleb Whitfield: Evening, Mary. The event’s black tie. Make sure you’re there before the opening remarks. I’d hate for the bank to be underrepresented.
Polite. Efficient. Threat-adjacent. Classic Caleb.
I set the phone back down, face-first this time, like I can smother the message before it breathes any deeper into my night.
I bite my lip without thinking.
“No, no, no—” One of the makeup artists lunges forward with a tissue. “Don’t do that.”
“Sorry,” I mutter.
She’s already dabbing at my bottom lip, frowning. “We just finished.” She pulls out the lipstick again, reapplying the berry stain with quick, precise strokes. “There. Stunning.”
When I look up, the mirror shows someone I barely recognize.
Hair swept up in soft waves, skin glowing under whatever miracle product they brushed on, lips stained a deep berry that makes me look older.
Expensive. Like someone who belongs at a charity gala instead of behind a bank counter counting twenties.
Which is exactly where I was eight hours ago.
It’s been a day straight out of hell. The kind where the line never ends, the cash drawer jams, and someone yells because their online transfer didn’t clear fast enough.
I spent eight hours smiling through complaints, pretending “I understand your frustration” means anything when my feet stopped feeling human around lunch.
Caleb wasn’t in the branch once, but he’s been haunting my phone since noon—text after text about tonight’s dress code, donor lists, arrival times.
Like I’m one of his gala lackeys instead of the girl chained to the teller counter.
Because apparently, I’m still part of his show.
“Arms up, honey,” says a girl with a pink pixie cut and a belt full of brushes, reaching for the bronzer.
I lift them obediently. She sweeps the brush along my collarbones, down my arms, creating shadows that make me look more defined. More deliberate. The bristles tickle, but I stay still.
“Turn,” she instructs.
I rotate slightly. A guy who looks like he moonlights as a K-drama actor steps in, hair bleached silver and curled just enough to look effortless. The mist hits cool against my skin, bright with citrus.
For a second, I focus on the rhythm of it: the brush, the spray, the background chatter. Easier than thinking. But my mind doesn’t stay quiet for long. It slips back to tonight, looping through every detail like I’m afraid I’ll miss a cue.
The Starlight Children’s Charity Gala—7:30 PM, Imperial Hotel Ballroom, valet entrance through the east drive.
Black tie, champagne tower, photo ops with men who call crimes “investments.” I mentally catalog everything Caleb texted me.
Arrival time. Which entrance. Who to look for.
It feels less like party planning and more like mission prep.
“Tilt your head back,” the makeup artist says.
I do. Someone’s brushing more shimmer along my temples now, catching the light. Making me sparkle. Making me visible.
My stomach turns.
Maybe… I could still cancel. The thought surfaces again, more desperate this time.
Fake the flu. Move to Utah. But my chest knows better.
There’s no pretending this away. This is the night everyone’s been waiting for.
The night that’s supposed to make all of this—Dave, the bank, the threats—finally stop. An ending, one way or another.
“Gorgeous,” one of them murmurs, stepping back to admire their work.
And I hate that I’m part of it. I hate that my pulse won’t slow down, that my hands keep shaking even though I keep telling myself to be brave.
Because I don’t know the plan. I know it’s dangerous—mafia dangerous, money laundering dangerous, the kind of dangerous that gets people killed.
I know Caleb will be there. I know Anton and the others will be somewhere nearby, watching.
I know they’ve been preparing me for something, teaching me things I never thought I’d need to know.
But the game plan? I’m flying blind.
Nobody gave me the strategy rundown.
What if they walk into gunfire?
What if they die trying to protect me?
The thought crawls up the back of my neck and won’t let go.
What if this is the last time I see Dima, Lev, and Boris—their laughter, their quiet, their impossible kind of loyalty that made danger feel like belonging. They’re the reason I don’t flinch at shadows anymore. The reason the silence in my apartment used to feel unbearable.
And Anton not walking back out—hits like a kick to the ribs. Something in my chest splinters, sharp and sudden. And the worst part? I wouldn’t even know what to say if I had the chance. No last words. No clean goodbye. Just everything I never said sitting heavy in my throat.
I blink hard and stare at the mirror light until it burns.
My throat does that stupid ache thing, the one that warns you it’s about to betray you.
I force a small inhale, pinch the inside of my wrist—just enough to ground myself—and tilt my head like I’m checking my makeup instead of trying not to cry.
God, why am I like this? Emotional at the worst possible times. I should feel relieved that it’s almost over, that the chaos might finally quiet down. But apparently, near-death experiences have turned me into someone who cries over people who kill for a living.
Jasper circles me slowly, the way he does with his designs before a runway show. Critical eye, tilted head, one finger tapping his chin. He stops in front of me, studies my reflection, then moves behind me again.
“Almost,” he murmurs. “Almost perfect.”
He steps closer, reaching for the neckline. His fingers adjust the emerald satin, tugging it down slightly on one side, then the other.
“Okay, we need to showcase the assets. Up, up, up… there we go. The girls are being shy tonight.”
I swat his hand, whispering through clenched teeth, “It’s a children’s charity gala, Jas. Not the damn Victoria’s Secret revival.”
He grins, utterly unbothered. “Children love sparkle.”
“Children don’t need trauma.” I tug the neckline higher, glaring at him in the mirror. “The theme is survive the night, not seduce a trust fund.”
That gets him. His smile falters for half a second, just long enough for me to see it—the flicker of worry behind the eyeliner and sarcasm.
He catches my reflection, then claps his hands once.
“Okay, Everyone out! I need a minute with my disaster bride here. Out, out, out—before I start crying in front of professionals.”
They exchange looks but obey instantly, gathering brushes and cords like soldiers retreating from a war they don’t want to fight. The perfume cloud follows them out the door, leaving the room quiet for the first time all day.
When the latch clicks, Jasper exhales and leans against the counter. “You alright, sugar tits?”
I huff out a laugh, but it doesn’t reach far. “Define alright.”
He studies me, head tilted. “You’ve got that look. The one where you’re about to stress-bake enough carbs to feed a small army.”
I pick at a rhinestone near my neckline. “Baking is productive anxiety.”
“Baking at 2 AM is a cry for help with butter.”
I snort, the sound catching somewhere between a laugh and a breath. For a second, it actually helps—Jasper’s jokes always do. Then it hits again, that low thrum of worry sitting just under my ribs. It crawls back in before I can shove it down.
“I’m just thinking about Grandma,” I admit, voice low. “If something happens tonight… she’s alone.”
Jasper’s expression softens, the corners of his mouth twitching.
“You trust your little mafia gangbang to keep you safe, right?”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t call them that.”
“What then? Your Russian boy band?” He raises a brow. “Fine, fine. I’ll stop. But seriously, if you need me there, I’ll show up. Bulletproof vest, dramatic entrance, the whole thing.”
I smile, faint but real. “What would you even do? Throw yourself in front of a bullet?”
“Absolutely not. I bruise easily. I’d just make a scene. Distract them with sequins.”
That gets another laugh out of me, but it fades quickly. Because the truth is, I do trust them.
It doesn’t make sense. I’ve spent most of my life not trusting anyone; not my father, not ex-boyfriends who made promises like loose change, not bosses who smiled while twisting knives. Trust was a luxury people like me couldn’t afford. But then came them.
Lev, who flirts with danger like it’s an Olympic sport but always stands in front of me first. Boris, who hides kindness under that dry, soulless tech-guy exterior.
Dima, silent as a ghost, but the only person who’s ever made me feel safe walking through a dark hallway.
And Anton… God. Anton, who terrifies everyone but somehow makes me feel less breakable.
I don’t even know when it happened; when fear stopped being the loudest thing in the room. Somewhere between the guns, the blood, the threats, they became the first people I didn’t have to question.
I blink hard, staring at the mirror. “Yeah,” I say finally, voice softer than I mean it to be. “I trust them.”
Jasper hums, skeptical but quiet. “That’s a first.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m just saying. You trusting people who carry guns for a living feels like… character development.”
He pushes off the counter and comes closer, expression softening. His hands land lightly on my shoulders, and for a second, the noise in my head goes still. He leans down, presses a quick kiss to my forehead, and lingers there.
“I see the changes in you, Mary Catherine Sullivan.”
I let out a small laugh, though it sounds tired. “That sounds suspiciously like a eulogy.”
He shakes his head. “No. It’s just… I’ve known you half your life. You don’t risk things. You don’t even jaywalk. Now look at you—heading into a ballroom full of men who could make a person disappear faster than my last ex.”
I tilt my head, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “You mean you’re not worried for me at all?”
“Oh, I’m terrified for you,” he says dryly. “But I’m also kind of impressed. You’re finally doing something that scares the hell out of you. I just wish it didn’t involve possible gunfire.”
That pulls a smile from me, soft and shaky. “Feels on brand, though.”
He huffs. “Yeah. Your new aesthetic: bullets and blush.”
I breathe out, the air catching in my throat, half laugh, half exhale.
“Mary…” His voice drops, the camp gone now. “If this Caleb thing feels wrong, you walk. I don’t care who’s watching. I’ll come pick you up myself. I’ll commandeer a helicopter. I’ll bribe a valet. I’ll cause a five-alarm fire if I have to. And I’ll fake your medical emergency.”
I smile at the reflection, shaky but genuine. “What would you even say? That I’m having a mascara allergy?”
“That you’re allergic to bullshit.”
That earns a real laugh from me, quiet but grounding. “You’re dramatic.”
“Correct. And still right.” He moves behind me again, adjusting one of my earrings—gentle, unhurried. “You look perfect, by the way.”
“Lethally perfect or socially acceptable perfect?”
“Yes.”
He meets my eyes in the mirror, and the humor fades just enough for honesty to settle in its place. “You scare me sometimes, you know that?”
“I scare myself.”
He nods once, then taps my shoulder. “Okay. Then let’s make sure tonight, you’re the one doing the scaring.”