Chapter 49
Mary
Grandma’s kitchen smells like butter and onions and every good memory I’ve ever had.
“More garlic,” she says, leaning over my shoulder to inspect the pot. “Always more garlic.”
“I put in four cloves.”
“So put in six.” She hands me two more. “Garlic is good for the baby.”
I don’t argue. Just peel and mince. Add them to the pot.
She says it so casually. Good for the baby. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like she’s been saying it forever.
Yesterday was different.
Yesterday, I stood in this exact kitchen, hands shaking, trying to find the words.
“Grandma, I need to tell you something.”
She’d looked up from her mixing bowl. Studied my face. And I’d seen the exact moment she knew.
“You’re pregnant.”
Not a question. A statement.
I’d nodded. Unable to speak.
“How far along?”
“Ten weeks. Almost eleven.”
She’d set down her bowl. Wiped her hands on her apron. And I’d braced myself. For shock. For disappointment. For the lecture about being unmarried and involved with a man who does God-knows-what for a living.
Instead, she’d pulled me into a hug.
“Oh, Mary-Cat.”
She’d held me for a long moment. Then pulled back, hands on my shoulders, studying my face.
“I should have known the second you walked through my door this morning.”
“Known what?”
“That you were pregnant. You’re glowing, Mary-Cat. Actually glowing. And when I offered you coffee, you turned green. She’d touched my cheek. And you’ve been doing that thing all morning.”
“What thing?”
“Touching your stomach. Every few minutes. Like you’re protecting something precious.” Her eyes had gotten wet. “Like you’re already a mother.”
I’d looked down at my hand. Resting on my belly. I hadn’t even realized I was doing it.
“Does he know?” she’d asked. “This man of yours?”
“Yes. He knows.”
“And?”
“And he’s the happiest.”
Grandma had smiled. Actually smiled. “Good. Then I’m happy.”
“You’re not… upset? Or worried? Or—?”
“Of course I’m worried. You’re my granddaughter, and you’re involved with a man who needs armed guards.” She’d touched my stomach. Gentle. “But are you happy?”
I’d thought about it. Really thought about it.
“I don’t know if happy is the right word. But I feel alive. More alive than I’ve ever felt.”
“Then that’s enough for me.” She’d kissed my forehead. “Now sit down. You’re going to tell me everything. And I’m going to make you tea.”
Just like that. No judgment. No lectures. Just acceptance.
That’s Grandma. That’s always been Grandma.
Three days since Anton’s text. Seventy-two hours since Almost home, my love. Wait for me.
Three days of holding onto those words like a lifeline.
He’s alive. He’s coming home. That’s all I know. That’s all I need to know.
For now.
“You’re quiet today,” Grandma observes. She’s rolling out dough for dumplings. The thick, flat kind that need to be cut into strips and dropped into the simmering broth. The ones that take four hours but are worth every second.”
“Just thinking.”
“About him?”
“Always.”
She nods. Doesn’t judge. Just keeps rolling. “When’s he coming home?”
“Soon. A few more days.”
“Good. I want to meet him properly. Not just that quick introduction like the last time.”
“You will. I promise.”
Nurse Ruth is at the table, chopping cabbage. She’s on leave this week—took time off specifically to help Grandma with whatever project she was planning. Which, apparently, is feeding me until I explode.
“How’s the morning sickness?” Ruth asks. Professional. Clinical. Even when she’s off-duty.
“Better. Still there, but manageable.”
“Good. That usually peaks around week ten, eleven. You’re almost through the worst of it.”
“Almost” feels like the theme of my life right now.
Almost done with the first trimester. Almost done waiting for Anton. Almost thirty years old. Almost a mother.
Almost, almost, almost.
The back door opens. Jasper walks in carrying bags from some fancy grocery store I’ve never heard of.
“I brought provisions!” he announces. “Organic, locally sourced, and ridiculously overpriced. You’re welcome.”
Grandma looks at him over her glasses. “We have food, Jasper.”
“You have ingredients. I brought provisions.” He starts unpacking. Fancy cheeses. Artisan bread. Imported olive oil. “There’s a difference.”
“He’s dramatic,” I tell Grandma.
“I’m thorough,” Jasper corrects. He kisses Grandma’s cheek. “Looking beautiful as always, Mrs. Sullivan.”
“Flattery doesn’t work on me.”
“It absolutely does.”
She tries not to smile. Fails.
Outside, I can see Lev and Dima through the window. Standing in the driveway. Not talking. Just… existing. Watching.
They’ve been like that since Anton’s text came through. Calm. Steady. No visible relief or celebration.
Like they never doubted he was alive.
Like of course he survived. Of course he’s coming home. Why would they think otherwise?
It’s unnerving. And also kind of comforting.
Because if they have that much faith in him, maybe I should, too.
“Those men,” Grandma says, following my gaze. “They’re with you? Always?”
“Yeah.”
“Anton’s people?”
“Yeah.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then: “They’re good men.”
“They are.”
“Loyal.”
“Very.”
“That says something. About him. About the kind of man who inspires that kind of loyalty.”
I look at her. “You know, don’t you? What he does.”
She doesn’t even blink. Just keeps rolling dough. “I know enough.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“And you’re okay with it?”
She sets down the rolling pin. Looks at me. Really looks at me.
“I asked you yesterday if you were happy. You said you felt alive.” She wipes flour from her hands. “That’s not something you fake, Mary-Cat. That’s not something you can force. Either you feel it, or you don’t.”
“I feel it.”
“Then that’s all I need to know.” She picks up the rolling pin again. “As long as you’re safe. As long as you’re choosing this life instead of being trapped in it.”
“I’m choosing it.”
“Good.” She goes back to the dough. “Because that baby needs a mother who knows what she wants. And a father who’ll fight for it.”
My throat tightens. “He will. He is.”
“I know. That’s why I’m not worried.”
Jasper’s watching us from the counter. Unusually quiet.
Then he clears his throat. “So. Your birthday’s in two days.”
“I know.”
“The big three-oh.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“We need to celebrate.”
“We’re celebrating right now. With chicken and dumplings.”
“That’s not a celebration. That’s just Tuesday.” He leans against the counter, eyes gleaming with dangerous ideas. “We need to do something big. Something memorable.”
“No.”
“I haven’t even said what yet.”
“Still no.”
“What about a club takeover? I know a place on the Strip. We could rent out the VIP section—”
“I’m pregnant and Anton’s in Russia. Hard pass.”
“Fine. Skydiving?”
“I’m PREGNANT.”
“Right. Okay. Yacht party?”
“We’re in Las Vegas. There are no yachts.”
“Lake Mead has boats.”
“Jasper.”
“Flash mob? I could choreograph something. Get some backup dancers—”
“Absolutely not.”
“You’re no fun.”
“I’m realistic.”
He sighs dramatically. “Fine. No parties. No adventures. But—” He points at me. “I’m dressing you up. Non-negotiable.”
“Jas—”
“Non. Negotiable.” He’s using his designer voice. The one that brooks no argument. “You’re turning thirty. You’re pregnant. Your boyfriend’s coming home from a murder mission. This is a MOMENT. And you’re not spending it in a T-shirt and leggings.”
“His T-shirt,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
“There’s really not.”
Grandma’s smiling into her dough. Ruth’s trying not to laugh.
“I get to pick the outfit,” Jasper continues. “Hair. Makeup. Everything.”
“I’m not doing makeup.”
“You’re doing light makeup.”
“No makeup.”
“Tinted moisturizer and mascara. Final offer.”
I glare at him. He grins back. Shameless.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But nothing ridiculous.”
“Define ridiculous.”
“No sequins. No feathers. No—”
“You’re really limiting my creative vision here.”
“Good.”
He’s already scrolling through his phone. Probably pulling outfits. Making plans. Being Jasper.
“I’m thinking emerald green,” he says. “Brings out your eyes. Shows off the pregnancy glow you’re starting to get.”
“I’m not glowing. I’m sweating.”
“Tomayto, tomahto.”
“That’s not how that expression works.”
“Also thinking heels. Nothing crazy. Two inches. Maybe three.”
“I can barely walk in flats right now.”
“Which is why we practice.”
Grandma’s watching us with amusement. “Let him dress you, Mary. What’s the harm?”
“The harm is he’ll put me in something I can’t sit down in.”
“I would never.” Jasper presses a hand to his chest. “I’m a professional. I know pregnant bodies. I dressed three pregnant actresses last month.”
“Were they actually pregnant or Hollywood pregnant?”
“Irrelevant.”
I turn back to the stove. Keep stirring the broth.
And realize something.
I like this. This life. This version of me.
The Mary who cooks with her grandma. Who has a best friend who insists on dressing her up. Who has two Russian bodyguards standing outside like sentinels. Who’s pregnant with a baby she never planned but already loves. Who’s waiting for a man who reads poetry and kills people and calls her my love.
It’s messy. It’s complicated. It’s dangerous.
But it’s mine.
And for the first time in my life, I don’t want to be anywhere else.
“I like this version of me,” I say quietly.
Grandma looks up. “What?”
“This version. The one who’s here. Doing this. Being this.” I gesture vaguely at myself. “I spent so long trying to be someone else. Someone acceptable. Someone who fits in. And now I’m just… me. And it’s enough.”
“It’s more than enough,” Grandma says. “It’s everything.”
Jasper’s tearing up again. “Stop. I swear to God, if you make me cry—”
“You’re already crying.”
“I’m glistening.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is now.”
We all laugh. The tension breaks.
Grandma starts cutting the rolled dough into thick strips. I add the vegetables to the pot. Ruth seasons. Jasper sets the table.
We work together. Easy. Familiar. Like we’ve done this a thousand times.
An hour later, it’s done. The dumplings are perfect—thick and fluffy, soaking up all that rich chicken broth. The kitchen smells like home.
Grandma moves to the back door. Opens it. “You two! Come eat!”
Lev’s head appears instantly. Like he’s been waiting by the door this whole time. “You sure?”
“Would I ask if I wasn’t sure?”
He’s inside before she finishes the sentence. Grinning. Shameless.
Dima follows. Silent. But there’s something in his face—almost like relief.
And suddenly Grandma’s tiny kitchen feels even smaller. Two six-foot-plus Russian men take up an enormous amount of space.
Lev has to duck under the hanging plants. Dima’s shoulders nearly brush both walls.
“Jesus,” Jasper mutters. “It’s like watching two refrigerators try to navigate a dollhouse.”
“I heard that,” Lev says.
“You were supposed to.”
We squeeze around the table. Elbows bumping. Chairs scraping. It’s cramped and ridiculous and perfect.
Grandma sets down bowls. Steaming chicken and dumplings.
Lev takes one bite. Closes his eyes. “Marry me.”
“You could be my grandson.”
“I don’t care. This is love.”
Even Dima cracks a smile. Takes a second helping before he’s finished the first.
And just like that, we’re family.
Messy. Unlikely. Ours.