Chapter 46
Mary
Two hours later, the kitchen smells like heaven.
Butter. Cinnamon. Sugar. Yeast. The smell of home and comfort and every good morning I’ve ever had.
The dough is rising. The filling is ready. My hands are covered in flour.
And for the first time in three days, I feel almost okay.
Not good. Not happy. But okay.
Like maybe I can survive this, after all.
Lev’s been watching me work from his spot on the counter. Not talking. Just present.
“You’re good at this,” he says finally.
“Thanks.”
“No, I mean you’re really good. Like, professional-level good.”
I shrug. “I used to think about opening a bakery. Before life got complicated.”
“What stopped you?”
“Money. Fear. The usual.” I roll out the dough and spread the filling. “And then I met Anton, and everything became about staying alive.”
“You could still do it,” Lev says. “After. When things settle.”
“If they settle.”
“They will.” His voice is certain. “The boss doesn’t lose. Ever.”
“There’s a first time for everything.”
“Not for him.”
I want to believe that. Want to believe Anton’s invincible. That The Reaper always wins.
But I’ve seen him bleed. Seen him hurt. Seen him almost die in my arms.
So forgive me if I don’t worship at the altar of his reputation.
The door swings open. Jasper walks in, looking impeccable as always. Designer jeans. Silk shirt. Sunglasses perched on his head, even though we’re indoors.
“I smell cinnamon,” he announces. “Did you actually—?” He stops. Stares at the kitchen. At me covered in flour. At the rising dough. “You’re baking.”
“I’m baking.”
“Holy shit. You’re actually baking.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not surprised. I’m impressed.” He sets down his bag—probably full of fabric samples or whatever designers carry around—and moves closer. “These are the ones, aren’t they? The legendary cinnamon rolls?”
“They’re just cinnamon rolls, Jas.”
“Lies. These are transcendent. These are life-changing. These are—”
“Jasper.”
“What? I’m expressing enthusiasm.”
Lev snorts. “Is he always like this?”
“Always,” I confirm.
“I like him.”
“Everyone does,” Jasper says. “It’s a gift and a curse.”
I roll the dough into a log. Start slicing. The motion is meditative. Familiar. Mine.
And for the first time in three days, my brain goes quiet.
Not thinking about Anton. Not checking my phone. Not counting hours.
Just… this.
Creating something good with my hands.
Maybe Jasper was right.
Maybe I do need something that’s just mine.
And maybe—just maybe—I’m going to be okay.
Even if he doesn’t call.
Even if I have to wait the full two weeks.
Even if everything’s uncertain and terrifying and out of my control.
I’ll be okay.
Because I have to be.
For me. For the baby. For Grandma. For the life I’m building, even when I’m scared.
I slide the pan into the oven. Set the timer.
Twenty-five minutes until they’re done.
Twenty-five minutes until I prove to myself that I’m more than just someone waiting for a man to come home.
I’m Mary Catherine Sullivan.
And I’m going to be just fine.
My throat’s dry. All that flour in the air. I turn toward the sink, reaching for a glass—
Dima’s already there. Hands me a glass of water. Filled. Cold. Like he read my mind.
I take it. “Thanks.”
He nods once.
We both turn to look at the island, where Jasper is currently circling Lev like a shark that has just spotted prey.
“You have incredible bone structure,” he says, tilting his head. “Has anyone ever told you that?”
Lev blinks. “What?”
“Your jaw. Your cheekbones. The symmetry.” Jasper’s eyes narrow, assessing. “You’re wasting this face on… whatever it is you do.”
“I kill people.”
“Perfect. Very brooding. Very editorial.” Jasper pulls out his phone and starts scrolling. “I have a campaign coming up. Menswear. Dark, moody, Russian mafia aesthetic. Which, let’s be honest, you’re already living.”
“I’m not a model.”
“You could be.”
“I’m a—”
“Killer, yes, we’ve established that. But you could be a killer who also models.” Jasper shows him something on his phone. “Look at this. Tell me you wouldn’t look incredible in Prada.”
Lev leans closer. Squints. “Is that guy wearing a dress?”
“It’s a tunic.”
“It’s a dress.”
“It’s high fashion.”
“It’s a dress.”
I’m trying not to laugh. Failing.
Jasper looks at me. “Help me out here.”
“Don’t drag me into this.”
“You’re already in this. You’re standing right there, covered in flour, watching this beautiful man waste his potential.”
“I like my potential,” Lev says. “It involves guns and not wearing dresses.”
“Tunics.”
“Dresses.”
Dima is leaning against the far counter, arms crossed, face completely neutral. But I can see it—the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. He’s enjoying this.
“Dima,” Jasper says suddenly. “Back me up.”
“No.”
“You haven’t even heard my argument.”
“Don’t need to.”
“He’d make thousands of dollars for a single photo shoot.”
“He makes more than that now.”
“Doing illegal things.”
“Exactly.”
Jasper throws his hands up. “You people have no appreciation for art.”
“We appreciate art,” Lev says. “We just don’t want to wear it.”
I snort. Actually snort. The sound surprises me so much that I clap a hand over my mouth.
Jasper grins. “See? Mary gets it.”
“I don’t get it. I’m just laughing at you.”
“Same thing.”
The timer dings.
I pull the cinnamon rolls out of the oven. They’re perfect. Golden brown, butter bubbling at the edges, the aroma so good it makes my eyes water.
Or maybe that’s something else.
“Oh, my God,” Jasper breathes. “Those are obscene.”
“They’re cinnamon rolls.”
“They’re pornographic.” He reaches for one.
I slap his hand away. “They’re hot. You’ll burn yourself.”
“Worth it.”
“Five minutes. Let them cool.”
He pouts. Actually pouts. A grown man.
Lev’s staring at the pan like it might contain the secrets of the universe. “They smell…”
“Good?” I offer.
“Dangerous.”
I think about Anton—how he still hasn’t tried them. How I want him here for something as stupidly normal as this.
God, there I go again.
My chest tightens.
But then Jasper’s saying something about glaze, and Lev’s asking if he can have three, and Dima’s moving closer to inspect my work, and the moment passes.
I’m okay.
I’m here. I’m baking. I’m surviving.
That’s enough.
I start making the cream cheese frosting. Butter, cream cheese, powdered sugar, vanilla. Simple. Classic. Perfect.
“Can I try the frosting?” Jasper asks.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ll eat it all.”
“That’s a valid concern.”
I spread the frosting over the still-warm rolls. It melts slightly, seeping into all the crevices. Perfect.
“Okay,” I say. “Now you can—”
Jasper already has one. Takes a bite. His eyes close.
“Oh, fuck,” he says through a mouthful.
“Language,” Dima mutters.
“No, you don’t understand.” Jasper swallows, takes another bite. “This is… Mary, this is… I’m getting emotional.”
“It’s a cinnamon roll.”
“It’s a religious experience.”
Lev grabs one. Bites. Goes completely still.
“Well?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer. Just keeps eating. Reaches for a second one before he’s finished the first.
I look at Dima. “You want one?”
He moves forward. Takes the smallest one. Bites carefully.
His face doesn’t change. But he nods once. “Good.”
From Dima, that’s a standing ovation.
“See?” Jasper says. “I told you. Legendary.”
I pull one apart, take a bite. The sweetness hits first. Then cinnamon. Then that perfect yeasty bread flavor underneath.
It tastes like home.
Like Sunday mornings in my old apartment. Like before everything got complicated. Like the person I used to be before I learned what fear really felt like.
“What are you thinking?” Jasper asks quietly.
“That I miss this.” I set down the roll. “I miss being someone who has time to make cinnamon rolls. Who isn’t constantly looking over her shoulder. Who—”
My phone buzzes.
We all freeze.
I stare at it. Screen face-down on the counter. Buzzing. Insistent.
“You going to get that?” Lev asks.
“It’s probably spam.”
“Could be important.”
“It’s never important.” But I pick it up anyway.
Unknown number. International code I don’t recognize.
My heart stops.
“Mary?” Jasper’s voice sounds far away.
I stare at the screen. It’s still ringing.
What if it’s him? What if something’s wrong? What if this is the call? The one Dima and Lev would make if Anton were—
I swipe to answer. Hand shaking. “Hello?”
Static.
Crackling.
Then—
“Malyshka.”
The world whirls.
That voice. Deep. Rough. Russian accent curling around the word like it’s the only one that matters.
Anton.
“Anton?” My voice breaks. “Is that—?”
More static. His voice cutting in and out. “—hear me—”
“I can hear you. Barely. Are you…?” Tears are already falling. I can’t stop them. “Are you okay?”
“—fine—can’t talk long—”
“Where are you? What’s happening? I’ve been so—”
The static gets worse. I can barely make out his words.
“—love you—coming home—”
“Anton, wait—”
“—safe, malyshka—promise—”
And then nothing.
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone. At the call log showing forty-three seconds.
Forty-three seconds.
That’s all I get.
My legs give out. I sink onto the floor, back against the cabinet, phone clutched to my chest.
He’s alive.
He called.
His voice… I heard his voice.
Jasper’s kneeling beside me. “Mary? What happened? Was that—?”
“He’s alive.” The words come out choked. “He called. For forty-three seconds. And then—”
I can’t finish. Can’t breathe. Can’t do anything except cry.
But this time, they’re not sad tears.
They’re relief.
Pure, overwhelming, devastating relief.
Because for forty-three seconds, I heard his voice.
And he said he’s coming home.
That has to be enough.
For now, that has to be enough.