Chapter 28
Mary
The first thing I notice is how still he is.
Dima.
Leaning against a black Range Rover like he’s been carved out of shadow and told not to move until someone dies.
I can’t see who’s inside. Can’t see if there’s anyone at all. The windows are tinted so dark they might as well be painted, and my stomach does that annoying swoop it saves for bad ideas.
I slow halfway to the car, because what do you even say to a man who looks like he’s waiting for the order to pull a trigger?
“Hi,” I manage. My voice sounds like I’ve forgotten which octave to use.
He opens the passenger door. No one’s inside. For some stupid reason, I’d half-hoped to see Anton there. Like maybe he’d decided to show up himself. My feet stall. Not quite ready to close the space between us.
I stand there like an idiot, clutching my purse. “So… grocery shopping?”
Nothing.
“With you?”
Still nothing.
“Because Anton said—”
One eyebrow. That’s it. Just the slightest lift of one dark eyebrow, and somehow it says more than most people manage in entire conversations. It says: Get in the car, Mary. Stop talking. You’re wasting oxygen we might need later.
I climb in. The seat swallows me whole, soft leather and cold air that smells faintly like mint and gun oil.
Dima slides into the driver’s seat with the kind of fluid motion that makes you realize he’s not just big; he’s precise.
The engine purrs to life, and then—
Music.
Not what I expected. Not death metal or Russian rap or whatever the hell I thought men like him listened to. It’s classical. Piano. Something complicated and sad that makes my chest tight.
“Rachmaninoff?” I guess, remembering my college job at Tower Records, where they made us memorize the classical section because no one else would work it.
He glances at me. Just a flick of those arctic eyes, but there’s something there. Surprise maybe. Or approval. Hard to tell when someone’s emotional range runs from stone to slightly different stone.
“Piano Concerto Number Two,” he says.
Four words. A record.
“It’s beautiful.”
He doesn’t respond, but his fingers tap the steering wheel in perfect time with the melody. Not random tapping; deliberate, like he knows every note. Like he’s played it before.
“Do you play?” I ask because apparently, I’ve decided silence is my enemy today.
“No.”
“But you—”
“My sister played.”
I should stop there. I don’t. “What did she play besides Rachmaninoff?”
His jaw works once. “Everything.”
That seems like the end of that conversation.
He’s already looking back at the road, hands loose on the wheel, posture deceptively relaxed. But his eyes—when they cut over just long enough to pin me—have the same temperature as the freezer aisle at Costco.
A shiver runs straight down my spine. Not the fun, ooh-he’s-hot kind. The might-wake-up-in-a-duffel-bag kind.
I face forward, because if I keep looking at him, I’m going to start babbling again, and I’ve seen enough True Crime to know that’s how you end up with your last words being something humiliating like, “So… do you guys get dental?”
I dig for something else, anything to make this less awkward. “I was thinking of making stuffed cabbage rolls this week. My grandma’s recipe. She used to bribe me into doing chores with them.”
No reaction.
“I’ll have to call her for the exact measurements. She’s one of those ‘eyeball it’ cooks.”
I pull out my phone and scroll to her last message.
GramCracker: The new nanny is very good, but she’s expensive. I hate to ask you for help with the cost. Love you, darling.
My chest pinches. I thumb a quick reply:
Don’t worry. I got a bonus at work. We’re fine.
Look at me, lying through my teeth like it’s a new life skill. Gold star, Mary.
I hit send before I can overthink it.
My phone buzzes immediately.
You are cute when you’re being weird. - L
“L?” I whisper. “Like… Lev?”
I glance around the car and spot a tiny camera mounted near the rearview mirror.
“Is Lev listening to us?”
Dima nods.
Of course he is. I pull up the message thread and add Lev to my contacts.
I type back:
I’m not being weird.
Lev: Your heart rate says otherwise.
Me: Stop monitoring my heart rate.
Lev: Stop making it interesting.
I flip off the camera.
My phone vibrates again.
Lev: Rude. Also, tell Dima to stop at Whole Foods. The good one on Sahara.
“Lev wants—”
“I know.”
“How?”
Dima tilts his phone slightly. Group text. Of course there’s a group text. Probably called Babysit the Banking Disaster or something equally flattering.
“Am I in this group text?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
He looks at me like I’ve asked why water is wet. “You’re the subject.”
“Of the group text?”
“Of everything.”
The way he says it—matter-of-fact, like it’s no big deal—makes my skin prickle. I’m the subject. Of everything. These men who kill for a living have made me their group project.
“That’s…” I search for the word. Creepy? Invasive? Weirdly flattering? “Concerning.”
“Yes.”
At least he’s honest.
I turn toward the window, letting Vegas smear past in lights and asphalt. The smart move would be to stop here. Keep my mouth shut. Quit poking at the guy who probably thinks small talk is a security risk. Rachmaninoff fills the car, complicated, heavy, not leaving much room for anything else.
We pull into Whole Foods, and he parks in a spot that gives him a clear view of every exit.
He gets out first, assesses the parking lot like he’s expecting an ambush between the Priuses and yoga moms. Then he opens my door.
“I can open my own—”
The look he gives me could freeze vodka.
“Right. Okay. Thank you.”
I step out, instantly aware of how… noticeable this feels.
It’s not like people are actually staring, but my brain’s convinced we’ve just entered the “celebrity sighting” portion of the Whole Foods experience.
I half expect someone to whisper, “Is that Kim Kardashian?” and then immediately answer themselves with, “No, just some random woman being escorted in by a six-foot-five Russian who looks like he eats paparazzi for breakfast.”
Inside, he pulls out a typed list from his pocket. Actual paper, folded precisely twice. Who uses paper anymore?
I open my notes app to check my sad little list—milk, bread, whatever’s on sale, wine to forget this week happened—but before I can say anything, his eyes flick to my screen.
One raised brow. Then he takes my handbag right off my shoulder, drops it into the child seat of a cart, and starts pushing like I don’t exist.
The silent judgment stings more than if he’d actually said “nutritionally inadequate.”
I have to practically jog to keep up with his stride. He moves through the store like he’s on a mission, which I guess he is. Operation: Feed the Disaster.
In the produce section, I reach for regular tomatoes.
“No.” He redirects my hand to the heirloom ones that cost more than I’ve ever spent on fresh vegetables.
“Those are eight dollars a pound.”
He doesn’t argue, just reaches into his jacket and pulls out a sleek black card. No name on it. Heavy enough that it feels like it could double as a weapon.
He holds it out.
I blink at it. “Is this… for me?”
The look he gives me could shut down a conversation from across a football field. That slow, unblinking stare that doesn’t just answer you; it makes you feel stupid for asking.
Right. It’s for me.
I take it like it might vanish if I hesitate, my brain already spiraling. Am I supposed to be using this every time I shop? Is there a spending limit? How long am I even going to be living under whatever-this-is? Days? Weeks? Forever?
“Didn’t know room and board came with a shopping allowance for the hostage.”
Dima’s mouth twitches like he’s deciding whether it’s worth correcting me.
“Asset,” Dima supplies helpfully.
“Great. I’m an asset that requires heirloom tomatoes.”
“Organic heirloom tomatoes,” he corrects, adding them to the cart.
I watch him select vegetables with surgical precision, checking each one. He has a system: squeeze, smell, weigh in his palm, approve or reject. It’s fascinating and terrifying.
“Where did you learn to shop like this?”
“Survival.”
“Survival requires perfect produce?”
“Survival requires perfection in everything.”
He says it simply, but there’s weight there. Like perfection isn’t a choice but a requirement. Like anything less than perfect might get you killed.
I’m contemplating this when I hear my name.
“Mary? Mary Sullivan?”
I turn to find Mrs. Henderson from three apartments down at my old building. Sweet lady—always has a little patch of cat hair clinging to her sweater and smells faintly of kibble and fabric softener—but genuinely kind.
“Mrs. Henderson! Hi!”
She’s looking between me and Dima with the expression of someone trying to solve an equation that doesn’t balance. “I heard you moved out. Rather suddenly.”
“Yeah, I… found a better place.”
“With your boyfriend?” She’s looking at Dima like he might eat her.
“He’s not—”
“Yes,” Dima says.
I almost choke on air. “What?”
“Boyfriend,” he confirms to Mrs. Henderson, who looks like she might need medical attention. “Very devoted.”
Mrs. Henderson blinks at me, at him, back at me. Then she does this slow little nod—the kind people give when they’re not sure if they’re agreeing or just buying themselves time—and mutters something about needing to check the sale on cereal before hurrying off like she’s trying not to be followed.
“Why did you say that?” I hiss when she’s gone.
He’s already walking toward the dairy section. “Easier.”
“Easier than what?”
“Truth.”
“Which is?”
He stops, turns those frozen lake eyes on me with the slightest hint of annoyance. “Bodyguard raises questions. Boyfriend doesn’t.”
“But—”
“Move. Dairy next.”
He’s already walking away, clearly done with this conversation.
I trail behind, pausing every time he stops to grab something.
Jars of vegetables in cloudy liquid. Rough, dirt-dusted roots.
Cheese so pungent it could have its own passport.
He handles each item with the same focus he used in produce—measuring, testing, approving—leaving no room in his world for guessing.
At the meat counter, the butcher—a young guy with a hipster beard and too much enthusiasm—starts flirting.
“Haven’t seen you before. New to the area?”
“No,” I say.
“Well, if you need any cooking tips for this beef—”
Dima materializes behind me. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. Just exists in that space with the kind of stillness that suggests violence in pause mode.
The butcher’s smile dies. “It’s, uh, pretty self-explanatory actually.”
“Da,” Dima agrees.
We get our meat and move on.
“You didn’t have to scare him.”
“Didn’t.”
“You did.”
“That was existing. Scaring looks different.”
“What does scaring look like?”
He glances at me. “You don’t want to know.”
He’s right. I don’t.
We round another corner, and I realize we’re at the last stop. Or at least it feels like it. My feet are already filing a complaint. I drift a little ahead, thinking we’re done, and somehow end up in the wine aisle. Total accident.
I reach for my usual—cheap Moscato.
He replaces it with something French I can’t pronounce.
“I don’t even like red wine.”
“You’ve never had good red wine.”
“What’s the difference?”
“One makes you forget. The other makes you remember.”
“Remember what?”
“That there’s more than this.”
It’s the most philosophical thing he’s said, and it hits weird. Makes me look at him differently. This man who kills people for a living thinks I deserve better wine.
“Do you?” I ask. “Have more than this?”
He considers the question as if it might be a trap. “No.”
“Then why—?”
“You might.”
I just stare at him, words jammed somewhere between my throat and brain. Didn’t see that coming.
The weight of it sits there, stretching the space between us. He has that quiet, dangerous presence, the kind that makes you pay attention even when you don’t want to. And now, apparently, he thinks I might have a future worth better wine.
I look at my bracelet, wondering if Anton’s listening through it. Would he text if he were annoyed? Or just show up later, irritated that I wasted time in the wine aisle? The not knowing is worse than orders would be.
I should be worrying about what happens when we leave here—the fact that there are people out there who’d rather see me dead than buying produce—but my brain latches onto something smaller, safer.
Like how much all this is going to cost. Heirloom tomatoes.
Mystery pickles. French wine. Cheese that probably needs a passport.
He steers the cart toward the front of the store without asking if I’m done. Of course I’m done. He decides when I’m done.
At the checkout, a teenage cashier is clearly overwhelmed, fumbling with the bags, dropping things. His manager swoops in and starts berating him in front of everyone.
“This is why I said you weren’t ready for register! You can’t handle simple—”
Dima steps forward. Doesn’t touch anyone, just inserts himself into the space between the manager and the kid.
“Breathe,” he tells the kid. “Count. Scan. Rhythm.”
The kid nods, starts again, finds his pace.
The manager sputters. “Excuse me, but—”
Dima turns those arctic eyes on him. “Problem?”
“N-no.”
“Good.”
When the last item hits the bag, the kid clears his throat. “Uh… $847.93.”
I pull the black card from my purse—the one Dima shoved into my hand earlier—and hand it over before my face can show how much that number just wounded me.
We leave with seventeen bags of overpriced groceries. The kid mouths thank you as we go.
“That was nice,” I say in the parking lot.
“Necessary.”
“Why?”
“Chaos spreads. Better to stop it early.”
I nod slowly, because… weirdly, that makes sense. And that might be the most unsettling part.
My phone buzzes in the side pocket of my purse. I shift a bag to one arm, fish it out, and swipe the screen.
Lev: Wow. Never heard Dima talk so much in a day. Year, maybe.
Dima talked a lot? That was “a lot”?
Another buzz. This time it’s from a number I don’t recognize.
Unknown: There’s a man named Evan at your apartment. Should I kill him?
I stop walking.