Chapter 21 #2
He folds his arms, like this is some noble act of mercy. “The fridge, though. That was criminal. I was genuinely concerned about your nutrition.”
“Let me get this straight. You picked my lock, invaded my home, and now you’re… judging my grocery habits?”
“I’ve seen war zones with better nutritional balance.”
I blink at him. Then at the bags.
My brain tries to form a sentence, but it’s stuck somewhere between are you kidding me and is this a stress dream? I walk over to the table, slow, like the bags might explode if I breathe too hard.
Prada.
Aritzia.
Theory.
Vince.
Brands I usually scroll past while eating off-brand cereal in my pajamas. One of the shopping bags is matte black with subtle gold lettering and tissue paper so thick it could be legally considered upholstery.
I glance up at Boris. “You broke into my apartment… to judge my groceries and then buy me clothes?”
“And underwear,” he adds helpfully.
Jesus Christ.
I look down at the bags again. They’re just sitting there, like it’s normal for a kidnapped woman to be given a mob-sponsored Nordstrom haul. Like this is some Bratva version of a makeover montage.
I reach in and pull out a pencil skirt. Dark charcoal. Tailored. Gorgeous. It feels like sin and competence had a baby.
It also looks a lot like the one I saw at Target last month, and told myself no because it was $29.99 and I still had rent to pay.
This one still has the tag.
$875.
I do the math in my head automatically—because that’s what I do—and nearly choke. That’s… twenty-eight hours of after-tax pay. For one skirt. One.
“Nope,” I say. “This isn’t happening. This is a hallucination brought on by trauma and MSG.”
But my hands are already moving. Pulling out a silk blouse. A pair of jeans that might actually fit my hips without giving me circulation issues. A soft green sweater that I would’ve tried on at the mall, stared at in the mirror, then quietly put back because I couldn’t justify it.
The clothes are perfect.
It’s like he crawled inside my head and pulled out my ideal wardrobe.
I catch my reflection in the penthouse windows, standing in a luxury apartment, surrounded by armed men, holding expensive clothes that were bought for me by someone who commits murder for a living.
I don’t recognize the woman in the reflection.
“Try them on,” Lev suggests, grinning like this is brunch and not a hostage situation.
Anton’s head shifts. Just slightly.
But it’s enough.
That side-eye has the same effect as a loaded gun. Maybe worse.
Lev catches it, lifts a brow, and shrugs as if to say, “What, I’m breathing wrong now?”
“What? I’m just saying she should make sure they fit,” he says.
“They’ll fit,” Boris mutters, digging into his takeout like he wasn’t just rifling through my underwear drawer earlier.
I blink at all three of them. Then shake my head. Hard.
“Yeah, no. Not doing a fashion show for armed men who just…” …killed someone. Or cleaned it up. Or both. Not a sentence I’m about to test out loud.
A dry cough escapes instead, like I can clear the thought out of my throat. “Pretty sure that’s not in my health plan.”
I start to turn, but Anton’s voice cuts in.
“You’re still wearing blood.”
I freeze. Glance down.
Right. The white shirt.
Speckled red at the hem. Smeared near my ribs where that asshole grabbed me. It’s thin, practically translucent in the light… and I’m still braless underneath.
Anton’s jacket is the only reason I’m not flashing everyone like this is Girls Gone Mafia.
It still clings to my shoulders, heavy and warm, smelling like gunpowder, spice, and whatever cologne smells like it comes with a warning label.
I shouldn’t be wearing it still.
But underneath, I feel naked. Not just physically.
Like I’ve been cracked open and everyone in the room can see the part of me that’s still shaking. Still running. Still waiting for this nightmare to end.
I tug the lapels tighter around myself, trying not to meet anyone’s eyes.
I grab the bags and bolt.
“The room’s on your left,” Lev calls after me. “Big-ass door. Can’t miss it.”
He’s not wrong.
There’s only one bedroom in this place… because apparently, guest rooms are for people who expect company, not killers who like their solitude uninterrupted.
And of course it’s ridiculous. Massive. Sleek dark wood and steel accents, floor-to-ceiling windows with blackout curtains drawn halfway, as if the sun’s not allowed in unless it has clearance.
The bed looks like something out of a billionaire magazine spread; low, wide, black frame, sheets so smooth they probably have a thread count higher than my credit score.
There’s a plush rug underfoot that sinks like fresh snow.
But zero personal touches.
No books. No framed photos. Not even a plant trying to survive.
A killer’s showroom.
I lock the door behind me and drop the bags onto the bed like they might crawl away if I don’t act fast.
The mirror across from me doesn’t lie.
I look like I’ve been dragged through a crime scene backwards. Because I have.
Hair tangled. Eyes glassy. My feet—bare, filthy from the blood, gravel, and Vegas pavement—are leaving faint prints on the rug.
Jesus.
I head for the bathroom, step onto cold tile, and give myself a quick rinse. Just enough to scrub off the worst of the day: dirt, sweat, whatever’s left of my pride. There’s no time for a full meltdown, so I towel off fast and pad back into the bedroom, still dripping at the edges.
I peel off the jacket, then the blood-stained shirt—now stiff and clinging in all the wrong places—and toss them aside like they’re cursed. I dig into the Nordstrom bags, praying for a miracle.
The lingerie is… aggressive.
Way too lacy.
Way too black. The kind of bra that belongs to someone with confidence and a getaway car.
I put it on anyway, adjusting the straps until the girls look like they’ve got ambition. Then the panties—high-cut, soft, and blessedly non-vengeful.
Then come the jeans. High-waisted. Curve-hugging. Soft enough to make me suspicious. Like they were pre-washed in angel tears and retail guilt.
Top options: A crisp silk blouse. A slinky tank. And—
Oh.
Oh hell no.
A cropped, ribbed sweater in soft green. Tiny cap sleeves. Snug waist. The kind of top that makes your waist look like it owes rent and your tits look like they just bought the building.
I stare at it.
It stares back.
“I am not that bitch,” I whisper.
But apparently… I am. Because five seconds later, I’m pulling it on.
And— Dear God.
I look… good.
The jeans hug my curves without being tight. The sweater is borderline criminal in what it does to my figure. Even disheveled and mildly traumatized, I look like I belong in this world of high thread counts and low morals.
That should terrify me.
Instead, it makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
I pause. Stare. Who is this woman in the mirror?
Still me. But… not.
Like if I opened my mouth, something smarter might come out. Something braver.
I don’t know why that thought makes my throat tighten.
By the time I leave the room, I’m bracing myself. I’ve done nothing wrong, but I still feel like I’m about to walk into Judgment Day.
I step out.
Conversation stops.
Anton’s eyes find me first. Then travel. Slow, measured, like he’s not just looking but marking. His expression doesn’t change. But something flickers behind the green. A twitch of the jaw. A tightening of his grip on the armrest.
Lev whistles low. “Yob tvoyu mat.”
Boris grins, all smug satisfaction, like he just won Project Runway: Mafia Edition.
Dima looks up once. Blinks. No expression. I can’t tell if he’s calculating the threat level… or just wondering what’s for lunch.
“Better?” I ask, trying for casual and landing somewhere between HR voice and mild cardiac episode.
Anton doesn’t answer right away. He just keeps staring. Eyes locked on mine like he’s trying to decide whether I’m a problem to solve or a habit he can’t kick.
“Much better,” he says finally—low, rough. Like the words cost him something.
The heat of it slides right under my skin.
My spine straightens. My palms sweat. My brain short-circuits in a way that has nothing to do with danger and everything to do with the way his gaze lingers at my waist before dragging back up to my throat.
The attention makes me uncomfortable.
Not just because four dangerous men are looking at me like I’m… well, like I’m something worth looking at. But because Anton’s not just seeing me. He’s studying. Deciding something. And whatever it is, it’s got my heart doing stupid gymnastics in my chest.