Chapter 21
Mary
The silence in the SUV is suffocating.
Vegas slides past; neon, palm trees, people just… living. Not flinching at every shadow.
Not almost dying twice before dinner.
Not carrying the smell of blood in their hair like I do.
The man driving hasn’t said a word since we left Rodriguez’s body. Tall, intimidating, with ice-cold eyes that keep flicking to me in the rearview mirror. He handles the SUV like he handles everything else—precise, controlled, deadly.
And beside me, the man who saved my life. Twice.
I still don’t even know his name.
“What’s your… name?” The words slip out before I can stop them.
He turns to look at me. “Anton.”
I wait for more. A last name. An explanation. Anything.
He slowly tilts his head, eyes locked on mine. Not a full turn; just a glance from under his lashes, like a side-eye laced with warning.
It should feel dismissive. Cold. But it doesn’t.
It feels like he’s peeling me open with that look. Like he already knows every secret I haven’t said out loud.
“Anton Malikov.”
Oh, my God.
Even his name sounds dangerous. Russian. Heavy with consonants that feel like threats.
“Anton,” I repeat, testing it. It tastes foreign on my tongue. Harsh. Nothing like the safe, boring names from my old life.
He doesn’t ask for mine. He already knows everything about me: where I live, where I work, what I keep in my purse. I’m the open book. He’s the locked vault.
The SUV turns into the underground garage of his building, and I realize we’re back. Back to the penthouse that’s become my prison. Or my sanctuary. I can’t tell the difference anymore.
Anton’s phone buzzes. He glances at it, types something back.
“They’re waiting,” he says.
“They?”
“My men.”
His men. Of course he has men. Of course this goes deeper than just him.
I should ask.
I should be rattling off a list: Who the hell are your men? What the hell did I see back there? And what the actual fuck is going on?
But the words get stuck somewhere between my throat and whatever organ controls common sense. My stomach? My liver? Honestly, it could be my spleen. Everything feels out of place right now.
Because deep down, I don’t want to hear the answer.
Not yet.
Not when my legs are still shaky from almost being murdered.
Not when the man next to me looks like he could break necks and model for a fashion magazine in the same breath.
So I stay quiet. Coward quiet.
A shiver runs through me; whether from the SUV’s air conditioning or delayed shock, I can’t tell. Anton notices immediately. Without a word, he shrugs off his black jacket and drapes it around my shoulders.
The fabric is warm from his body heat, smells of expensive cologne and something darker. Something that’s purely him. I pull it tighter around myself, and for a moment, I feel safe.
Protected.
Which is absolutely insane, considering the man protecting me just put a bullet through someone’s head. My brain knows this. My brain is screaming that feeling safe around Anton Malikov is like feeling safe around a loaded gun.
But apparently, my brain has clocked out for the day, because all I can focus on is how his jacket makes me feel small and cared for.
Stockholm syndrome works fast in Vegas, apparently.
The SUV stops, and the silent driver cuts the engine. Anton gets out first, then comes around to my side. He opens the door and extends his hand—another genteel gesture that shouldn’t make my stomach flutter, considering the circumstances.
I take his hand because my legs feel unsteady. His fingers are warm, strong, completely engulfing mine as he helps me out of the vehicle.
I hesitate at the elevator doors. This is it. The moment I walk back into the place I ran from this morning. The place that started feeling like a cage until I realized the whole world was one.
Anton’s hand settles on my lower back, firm but not rough. A gentle pressure that says move forward without saying anything at all. When I still don’t step inside, his grip shifts to my waist, fingers spanning almost the entire width of it, and he guides me into the elevator.
Not forcing. Not dragging. Just… inevitable.
Like everything else about him.
The elevator ride to the penthouse feels like ascending to judgment. I’m wearing his clothes, covered in desert dust, still shaking from what happened with Rodriguez. I don’t belong here. I don’t belong anywhere.
The elevator doors open, and my stomach drops.
There are two more of them.
They’re the guys from the balcony the other night. Shit. How long have they been watching me?
The first one looks up from a laptop, sharp cheekbones and messy hair, like a hacker who moonlights as a hitman. Or maybe it’s the other way around.
The second one makes my breath catch.
He’s massive. Six and a half feet of pure muscle, arms like tree trunks, a jagged scar running down his jaw. His eyes are bright blue, almost merry, which somehow makes him more terrifying. He grins when he sees me, like I’m the entertainment for the evening.
“Well, well,” he says in accented English. “The little rabbit returns.”
Anton doesn’t react to the nickname, which means either he approves, or this guy is too dangerous to correct. Neither option comforts me.
“Lev,” Anton says by way of introduction. “Boris.” His chin tips toward the driver. “Dima.”
I glance back at the silent man standing by the elevator like a shadow. The one who’s been watching me. A name now attached to the ghost.
“So,” Boris says, closing the laptop. “How’d it go with the helpful officer?”
“Rodriguez is handled,” Anton replies.
“Permanently handled?” Lev asks, still grinning.
“Permanently.”
They’re talking about murder like it’s a business transaction. Rodriguez is dead, and they’re discussing it the way normal people discuss the weather.
I sink onto the couch, my legs giving out.
“She looks pale,” Lev observes. “Maybe some vodka?”
“She doesn’t need vodka,” Anton says. “She needs information.”
All eyes turn to me. Three killers and Anton, all waiting for me to say something useful.
“I don’t know anything else,” I whisper.
“You know more than you think,” Boris says, settling into the chair across from me. “Dave Thornton told you about other players. People above him in the food chain.”
My stomach clenches. “I told you already—”
“Tell us again,” Anton says. It’s not a request.
So I do. I recount Dave’s confession word for word, watching their faces for reactions. When I mention corporate connections, Boris and Anton exchange a look. When I talk about federal contacts, Lev’s grin disappears.
“How high does this go?” I ask when I’m finished.
“Higher than you want to know,” Anton says.
Dima speaks for the first time, his voice a gruff rumble. “She’ll need new credentials for tomorrow.”
“Already handled,” Boris says, pulling something from his jacket. “Medical leave paperwork, signed by Dr. Sarah Tate at University Medical. Stress-related absence following a traumatic robbery incident.”
He hands me a manila envelope. Inside are a letterhead, official stamps, and a doctor’s signature that looks completely real.
“How did you—?”
“Dr. Tate owed a favor,” Anton says. “Now she doesn’t.”
The casual way he says it chills me. How many people owe him favors? How many doctors, cops, judges have been bought or blackmailed or worse?
“You go back to work tomorrow,” Anton continues. “Act normal. Grieve your boss. Help train his replacement. And keep your eyes open for anything unusual.”
“I don’t want to—”
“What you want stopped mattering yesterday,” he cuts me off. “You’re in this now. The only question is whether you help us or become a liability.”
The word “liability” hangs in the air like a threat.
“What happens to liabilities?” I ask, though I already know.
Anton’s eyes are steady, merciless. “They get handled.”
Like Rodriguez.
They’ll kill me.
They’ll throw my body into Lake Mead, probably. Right next to Jimmy Hoffa, a bunch of stolen casino chips, and at least three Elvis impersonators who crossed the wrong guy.
I picture it now: me, bloated and tragic, floating face-down in knockoff heels and last night’s mascara. A cautionary tale for drunk girls and bank tellers everywhere.
Lev’s phone buzzes. He glances at it, then at Anton. “Food’s here.”
“Finally,” Boris mutters. “I’m starving.”
Twenty minutes later, the penthouse smells of cheap Chinese takeout. The containers are spread across the kitchen island like a greasy buffet, and everyone’s digging in except me.
I pick at the fried rice, my stomach still twisted in knots.
“You’re not eating,” Anton observes.
“I’m not hungry.”
“When’s the last time you ate?”
I try to remember. Yesterday? This morning? Time has become meaningless.
“I don’t know.”
He studies my face, then pulls out his phone. “Boris, order something else. This is garbage.”
“It’s fine,” I protest.
“It’s not fine.” His tone brooks no argument. “You need to eat.”
The casual care in his voice catches me off guard. He’s worried about my appetite after orchestrating a murder. The contradiction makes my head spin.
While we wait for better food, the hacker-looking one disappears and returns with shopping bags.
“Your wardrobe,” he announces, setting them on the coffee table. “Courtesy of Nordstrom and educated guessing.”
I stare at the bags. “You went shopping for me?”
“I went to your apartment,” Boris says, like that’s a normal sentence to say to a woman he just met. “I know your style.”
He grins, all proud of himself. “Plus, I have three sisters. I know what women need.”
Wait. “You went to my apartment?”
“Yups.”
“You broke into my apartment?” My voice jumps a full octave.
Boris shrugs, completely unrepentant. “Picked the lock. You need better security, by the way. Those deadbolts? Cute, but ineffective.”
He pauses. “And your wardrobe?” He makes a face, like he just swallowed a thumbtack. “I considered grabbing a few things, but honestly? Nothing felt worth rescuing.”
My jaw drops. “You judged my closet?”
“I spared it. You’re welcome.”