Chapter 17
Anton
The scream slices through the wall like a serrated blade.
Mary.
I shove past the broken back door, stepping over the first body; face down, neck at the wrong angle. Boris didn’t waste time. The second one’s still twitching, fingers curling like he’s trying to grab air. Won’t find much. Blood pools from his throat, thick and fast.
“Dave’s dead,” he calls, checking the manager’s limp form.
I don’t look. I don’t give a fuck about Dave Thornton.
Because Mary is screaming.
The sound’s wrong; wet with fear, cracking at the edges. My hand’s already on the grip, safety off, body moving before my brain catches up. The old dryers rattle from distant movement. Dust kicks up around my boots, stale detergent and rust thick in the air.
I hear a grunt. A scuffle.
Then her voice—raw, panicked.
“No! Fuck off!”
I turn the corner fast.
He’s got her.
Big bastard. Looks like one of the Pakhan’s throwaways from the East Coast. Greedy face, filthy hands, pants already undone. He’s got her pinned between the dryers, her blouse ripped open, chest heaving with every gasp. His hand is on her throat.
Yob tvoyu mat.
I don’t say a word.
Don’t give him a warning.
I put a bullet straight through his fucking skull.
The sound cracks loud, close, like a thunderclap in a basement. The back of his head explodes against the metal wall. His body drops instantly. Dead before the blood hits the floor.
Mary screams again, louder this time.
She scrambles back, shoes slipping in blood. Then she sees me… Only she doesn’t really see me. Her eyes are wide, distant, pupils blown. Her mouth’s moving, but nothing comes out. She stares at the body, the blood, the twitching fingers.
Then her knees buckle.
I catch her before she hits the ground.
Her body slams into my chest, deadweight, limp, warm. Her head falls against my collarbone, hair soaked with sweat. I wrap my arms around her, tightening fast, anchoring her to me even as she fades.
“Mary,” I say low, checking her pulse with my thumb.
It’s there. Fast. Wild.
She’s breathing. Passed out.
I tilt her face up slightly, brushing her hair back, and something in me twists. Her bra’s still showing, torn open from that fucker’s grip. I shrug off my jacket and pull it around her, shielding her from everything, even the room.
Boris appears in the doorway, blood on his hands, gun still hot. He surveys the scene like it’s a grocery list.
“She okay?”
“No,” I grit out. “But she will be.”
He nods once. “We need to go. One of them might’ve gotten a message out.”
I lift her gently, arms locked around her back and under her knees. She doesn’t stir.
Her head drops against my chest like she’s finally decided someone else can carry the panic for her. One hand is still clamped tight around her purse like she fell asleep mid-robbery.
Boris parked a block away, always thinking ahead, always just paranoid enough. I carry Mary to the Tahoe, her weight barely shifting in my arms. She doesn’t stir. Not even when I duck my head into the backseat.
I’m glad we took this car.
It’s spacious, dark-tinted, the kind you disappear in.
I settle into the rear seat, holding her close, easing her head down onto my lap.
Her cheek presses against my thigh, smeared with dried sweat and something darker.
My jacket’s still wrapped around her. She’s shivering now; tiny, involuntary tremors that make my jaw clench.
Boris slides into the driver’s seat, starts the engine, and pulls out slowly.
“Cleaner crew’s five minutes out,” he says casually. “They’ll torch the cameras and sweep the scene. That place won’t exist in an hour.”
I nod once, watching the way Mary’s lashes stick together. There’s blood crusted near her temple. Not hers. Still.
My hand drifts, almost without thought, brushing a strand of damp hair off her brow. Her skin’s warm. Clammy. She looks too pale under the overhead lights, except for the pink mark blooming across her throat. My fingers curl around nothing.
“She got a strong grip,” Boris mutters, glancing at the rearview. “Still holding that purse like it owes her money.”
“Let her,” I say.
He lets the silence stretch, the tires humming low across the road.
Then: “Viktor’s not working alone.”
I glance up.
He’s watching me through the mirror, face unreadable. “One of the guys outside had a piece from the New York crew. Couldn’t have moved without clearance. Viktor’s got backup.”
“How much backup?”
“Enough that you’re gonna need more than Lev’s explosives and Dima’s trigger finger.”
I don’t answer. My eyes drift back to her. She shifts slightly, breathing ragged. Her brows twitch. Some part of her is still stuck in that fucking laundromat.
“Your damsel’s a magnet for trouble, boss,” Boris says, casual as anything.
“She’s not my damsel,” I growl.
But my hand’s still in her hair, stroking it back once, twice; like muscle memory I didn’t know I had.
Boris smirks. “Sure.”
We turn off the main strip, tires crunching over gravel. The buildings here are quieter. Gated. Private. Boris hits a code, and the garage door lifts, mechanical and slow.
I stare out the window.
“I see we’re not going back to my place.”
“We are going to your place,” Boris says.
He shrugs. “Just saying, if I were carrying a woman covered in blood who just fainted because some jackoff tried to rape her,” he jerks his chin toward the backseat, still gripping the wheel one-handed, “I might want to upgrade from cracked vinyl floors and a water heater that screams like a banshee.”
I don’t respond. He’s not wrong. I hate that he’s not wrong.
He continues anyway. “You want her passing out again in a folding chair, or maybe we lay her out somewhere with sheets that don’t smell like mildew and cat piss?”
“Boris.”
“Don’t ‘Boris’ me, bratan. You know where I’m going with this.”
I do. I just don’t like it.
Because this wasn’t supposed to be anything.
Not a rescue mission. Not a safe house operation. And definitely not her sleeping in my bed.
But here we are.
The building rises like a monolith; matte black steel, no signage, no buzzers. Tucked behind a security gate just off Desert Inn. Boris picked the location. Quiet, central, forgettable. Ten units in total. No leases. Everything bought in cash. Everything under my name.
I’ve never stepped foot inside.
It was one of several properties they secured for me; Lev handled the shell companies, Dima vetted the security feeds, and Boris hired some woman with perfect posture and dead eyes to make it look livable. A place to vanish into, if shit ever went sideways.
Guess we’re there now.
We pull into the underground garage. Motion lights snap on, flooding the space in cold, sterile white. Clean floors. Reinforced elevator shaft at the far end; glass-walled, fingerprint-locked. Cameras in every corner, masked under sleek chrome casings.
Boris shuts off the engine.
“She gonna make it up, or you want me to carry her?”
I look down.
Mary’s still unconscious, her face slack against my leg. But fuck… She’s gorgeous.
Even now—bruised, blood-specked, lashes clumped together—she looks like something meant for a different world than mine. Fragile in all the wrong ways. Tough in all the right ones.
“I’ve got her.”
I slide out of the SUV with her in my arms, careful not to jostle her. Boris moves to the elevator, already scanning the garage like he expects company.
He doesn’t say anything until we’re inside, door sealed, elevator rising.
“I’ve got a lot of shit to do,” he mutters. “Figure out who Viktor’s working with, how the hell they found the girl, what she knows, who else knows it. Not exactly light work.”
“I want it quiet,” I say. “Low. No chatter up the chain.”
Boris lifts a brow. “You want to keep this from the Pakhan?”
“I want to keep it controlled,” I correct. “We don’t feed Igor anything until we have facts. Not guesses. Not panic.”
He studies me for a beat, then exhales through his nose. “You think Mary’s connected?”
“I think someone tried to kill her in a fucking laundromat. Hours after she flagged something at that bank. You tell me.”
He doesn’t answer. Just pulls a burner out of his pocket and starts tapping.
“She’s not the type to know what she’s involved in,” I say, eyes on the elevator screen as it ticks toward the penthouse. “But someone clearly thinks she is.”
Boris nods once. “I’ll backtrace the file. See who had eyes on it. I’ll also need to grab your laptop. Or you wanna keep staring at paper like a grandpa?”
I grunt. “Just get it done.”
The elevator chimes. We step out into silence; floor-to-ceiling glass walls, shadowed furniture, air that smells like money. Everything is soft beige and hard lines, too clean to feel real. I don’t even know where the damn bedroom is.
Boris scans the space like he’s seen it before, which he probably has.
“I’ll get the cleaners to bring up towels and supplies,” he mutters, still typing. “She’s gonna need water, maybe something for shock. You got meds here?”
“No clue. Check the cabinets.”
He pauses, glancing back as I lay Mary down across the long couch near the window.
“You want me to keep an eye on her?”
“I want you to make sure her grandmother’s safe.”
Boris blinks. “The old woman?”
“She lives alone.”
He blows out a low whistle. “So this is what we’re doing now? Extending family protection to civilians who smell like meatloaf and prescription ointment?”
“She’s all Mary has.”
His jaw works, but he doesn’t argue. “Fine. I’ll post two men discreetly nearby.”
“Three. And make sure they rotate. No patterns.”
“Jesus. Anyone else you want tucked in tonight? Her coworkers? Her fish?”
I shoot him a look.
He raises his hands in surrender. “Got it. Grandma first. Then the Viktor shitshow. Anything else while I’m saving the world?”
“Yeah,” I say, walking toward the hallway, searching for a bedroom door. “She’s going to need clothes. Go to her place. Grab what you can without making it obvious.”
Boris tilts his head. “Clothes.”