Chapter 30
Mary
Iwake up choking on sunlight.
“Oh, shit!” I jolt upright, heart punching my ribs before I even remember where I am. I’m already bracing for Dave’s smug face in the doorway, ready to make some joke about my “flexible arrival time.”
Only… Dave’s never showing up anywhere again. His voice breaking into that last, awful scream. It still hits the same way it did that night—like someone yanked the air right out of my lungs. My fingers clench the blanket without meaning to, knuckles going white.
Then it occurs to me. Saturday. No bank. No Stephanie waiting to comment on my hair like she’s head of HR and the fashion police combined.
I pull in a long, slow breath and flop back onto the bed, muscles unclenching one by one. For the first time in days, nothing’s chasing me—not footsteps, not gunshots, not my own thoughts.
I stretch across the ridiculous king-sized bed, my toes sliding over crisp sheets. I reach for my phone again, thumb swiping before my brain catches up.
It’s been forever since I slept in like this.
Which would be fine if this were a normal Saturday.
But apparently, even as a kidnapped person, I can’t avoid feeling guilty about oversleeping.
And the worst part? I slept well. Like, really well.
Which is apparently a perk of captivity no one talks about.
I roll onto my side, opening the unread text. Same number as yesterday. The one I’m pretty sure is Boris. The message is just a thumbs-up emoji.
My stomach flips. Oh God—did I actually tell Boris to punch Evan?
I replay last night in my head and, yep, there it is—me texting, “Just punch him in the face and tell him I moved.” And Evan showing up and calling himself my boyfriend? Really? Six years of him forgetting my birthday, and now he’s suddenly claiming me like a bad rental car he left at the airport?
I call Grandma instead.
It only rings twice before a warm, no-nonsense voice answers. “Margaret Morgan’s house. This is Ruth.”
“Uh—” I sit up straighter. “Who’s Ruth?”
“I’m Ms. Morgan’s nurse. She’s doing her hair. Want me to put her on?”
Her nurse. Right.
The one Anton hired for my grandma. Nothing like finding out the mobster holding you hostage is also your family’s new healthcare provider. Weird flex.
“Hi, Ruth. I’m Mary, her granddaughter. How’s she doing?”
Ruth’s voice is calm and efficient, the kind of tone that makes you sit up straighter even over the phone.
“She’s had some dizzy spells in the mornings.
I’ve been monitoring her blood pressure and making sure she’s eating something more substantial than tea and toast. Today I’m doing baked salmon and vegetables. ”
My brain does the math automatically. Salmon. Daily check-ins. Medication management. The woman probably charges a bundle.
“Mary?” Grandma’s voice comes on, a little scratchy but steady.
Relief warms my chest. “Hey, Grandma. How’s your morning?”
“She’s got me in curlers,” she says dryly. “Like I’m going to a dance.”
I grin so hard my cheeks hurt. “You’d be the belle of the ball.”
We talk for a few minutes. About her breakfast, about how nice Ruth is, about nothing important. But she sounds… good. Happier than I’ve heard her in months. And that unsettles me, because the people making her life better are the same ones holding me here.
I tell her I won’t be able to visit for a few days—no reason given, because I can’t think of one that isn’t a felony—and hang up just as a sound catches my attention.
Outside.
Low voices. Male.
I pad to the bedroom door. Two shadows move under the frame. My brain instantly supplies one name—Anton—and my heart does this stupid little jump like a dog hearing a car pull into the driveway.
Seriously, Mary?
I do a quick mirror check. Hair: tragic. Sweatshirt: baggy. Not that it matters, but— Ugh, fine, it matters. I twist my hair into something vaguely intentional, swap the sweatshirt for a T-shirt that doesn’t look like it’s been chewed by raccoons, and open the door.
“Good morning,” I chirp. Great. Now I sound like I’m greeting a customer at the bank. All I need are a clipboard and a fake smile to complete the look.
Instead of Anton, I get Boris—broad, unreadable, arms loaded with what looks like half my balcony garden. Behind him, Dima looms like a bodyguard in a shampoo commercial—tall, intimidating, but with better hair.
And between them, plopped right on the floor, is Gordo.
The moment he sees me, his eyes go saucer-wide. He lets out one sharp Mrrrp! and gallops toward me, round orange belly swinging like a wrecking ball. He rams his head into my shin, tail vibrating in that manic way that means “feed me or perish.”
I crouch, scratching behind his ears. “Why… is Gordo here?”
Boris shrugs, shifting a planter from one arm to the other like it weighs nothing. “He was on your balcony.”
I crouch, rubbing my fingers over the top of his head. He pushes harder into my hand, then lets out an even louder meow—long and accusing—the exact sound that says, “Woman, I have been STARVING for YEARS.”
I glance up at Boris. “Has he been with you since last night?”
“Yeah.” He says it like it’s nothing, shifting a planter from one arm to the other. “Got him some food. He ate, then passed out next to Dima for the rest of the night.”
I blink. There’s something almost sweet about it; two men who could probably dismantle a human body in under five minutes, making sure Essie’s spoiled, fat tabby was fed and tucked in.
“I should text Essie,” I murmur, scratching under Gordo’s chin. “Let her know he’s with me so she doesn’t worry.” Not that she wouldn’t have figured it out when he wandered back home smelling like gun oil and basil.
I look from Boris to Dima, trying to process why they’ve apparently started cat-rescue operations.
Dima just stares at me, which I’m ninety percent sure is his default setting.
Boris, on the other hand, keeps talking like this is a normal Saturday morning conversation. “Also, I punched your ex.”
Yups, of course he knows it’s my ex.
“Like you asked me to,” he deadpans.
My mouth opens, then shuts. Right. I did say that. And now I feel the heat crawl up my neck because, apparently, I’m the kind of person who asks near-strangers to punch my ex.
“Plus, he was being a fucking dick, standing there running his mouth about how you cheat on him.”
I blink at him. “He said… what?”
My brain is still catching up when he adds, almost as an afterthought, “He thinks I’m your boyfriend, and he called you a bitch.”
“Oh. Thanks.” I mean, if that’s really what Evan’s been telling people, then yeah, he deserved the punch. Maybe even a few more for good measure.
Boris tips his head, like obviously.
Dima speaks for the first time, his voice low and unhurried. “You eaten yet?”
I frown. “Why?”
“Because you look like you’re about to pass out.”
Which… is true. I didn’t have dinner last night; just kind of crashed face-first after everything.
Trying to get into Dave’s office, almost getting caught by Caleb.
Then grocery shopping with Dima and capping the night off with Evan.
By the time I made it back here, I was running on fumes.
And breakfast? Nonexistent. Which would be fine if it weren’t noon now.
Boris’s eyes flick over me, slow and assessing, like he’s measuring how long I could stay upright if left unsupervised.
In the kitchen, I hover for a moment before opening the fridge.
“Do you… want me to make something for you too?” I ask because it feels rude not to.
Boris leans against the counter, looking far too at home. “Sure.”
I tilt my head toward Dima. He’s just standing there, hands in his pockets, watching me like a man who’s already decided how this is going to go. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to.
“Right,” I mutter. “Two, then.”
Boris smirks like this was his plan all along.
Gordo’s pawing at a cabinet now, claws clicking against the wood like a timer counting down.
“I’ll get you something too,” I tell him.
Thirty minutes later, the kitchen smells like home. Or at least… like someone’s home.
I slide a plate in front of Boris, then one in front of Dima. Scrambled eggs with cream, flecks of rosemary from my balcony pots, and toast brushed with garlic and olive oil. Simple. But good.
Boris stabs a forkful, chews once, and freezes mid-bite like he’s not sure what just happened in his mouth. Dima’s expression barely changes, but I see it… the tiniest lift of one eyebrow. That’s basically a five-star Yelp review in his language.
I pretend to check the towel draped over my shoulder, but inside? I’m ridiculously pleased with myself.
On the floor, Gordo is annihilating his own plate—shredded chicken mixed with broth. His paws knead the tile like it’s the softest blanket he’s ever seen, and every few bites he pauses to meow up at me, all praise and demands in one.
I glance around the kitchen. My herbs line the windowsill now, catching a patch of sunlight.
Mint, basil, rosemary… the green bright against the steel and marble.
It’s warmer. Softer. Almost like… home. The thought catches me off guard.
This isn’t my home. I’m not supposed to want it to be.
And then Anton’s face pushes into my head, uninvited, unwanted.
Where is he now? Does he even care that I’m in here cooking for his men?
Boris leans back in his chair, finally looking less like a guard dog and more like someone who just ate well.
“This is good,” he says simply.
I manage a small smile, not sure if I’m supposed to thank him. I chew another bite slowly, just to buy time, watching both of them over the rim of my plate.
“Better than some mornings,” Boris adds.
Curiosity tugs before I can stop it. “Like when?”
He smirks. “Like the time we were eating gas station jerky in a car trunk on the way to bury someone in the desert.”
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. “You’re joking?”
Dima, without looking up: “No.”
I glance between them, unsure if I’m supposed to laugh or stop eating. “So… what made you… become…” I trail off, fumbling for the right word.
Dima supplies it without hesitation. “Mafia?”
My shoulders tighten, but I nod.
Boris sets his fork down. “It’s not something you become. It’s where you end up when you’ve got nothing else, and someone shows you how to survive. For us? That was Anton.” The way he says his name is different; not casual, not light. Like there’s weight on it.
“You only trust him?” I ask. Boris nods once.
“Him alone. He pulled us out when we were worth nothing, kept us alive when nobody else gave a shit. Men like that… you don’t betray. You don’t question.”
I take a sip of water, swallowing before I ask, “Is Anton… the boss?”
Boris shakes his head. “No. We work for the Vetrov family. Always have. Goes back to his grandfather’s days, when this lifestyle was the only way to survive. His father followed in his footsteps, and now Anton too. The Bratva is in his genes.”
I set my glass down carefully. “So… he’s not in charge, but he still…”
“Controls more than most who are,” Dima finishes for me. His tone is even, but the implication makes the back of my neck prickle. “He’s the one they call when bodies need disappearing or empires need dismantling. Doesn’t need a throne. He has everyone’s secrets.”
Boris smirks faintly. “And he doesn’t like chaos. Ever. Which…” He gestures slightly toward me with his fork. “Might be a problem.”
I blink. “Me?”
Neither of them answers, but they don’t have to. I’m not the kind of chaos you sweep off the floor or put back in a pot. I’m the kind that shows up in the middle of whatever plan he thought he had and rewrites the whole thing without asking.
The silence after is heavy enough to press on my chest. I don’t know what to say, so I glance down at my plate and focus on eating.
That’s when I hear the click of the front door.
Footsteps. Two pairs.
Boris and Dima don’t even look toward the sound… which somehow makes me ten times more nervous.
Anton walks in first. Tall, deliberate, the kind of presence that swallows the room before he says a word. Lev is right behind him, grinning like he just walked into the best kind of trouble.
Lev’s eyes land on me, then the plates on the table, then Gordo licking his paw in the corner.
“Well, well,” Lev says, his voice full of mock admiration. “Lunch with the boys. Getting comfortable, huh?”
I grip the edge of my chair. “I was just—”
“You know too much about us now,” Lev interrupts, still smiling, but his eyes are sharp. “Guess that means you’re stuck with us.”
Lev’s still talking. I’m still pretending to listen.
And then Anton looks at me.
I forget my own name. Suddenly, the kitchen, the clink of forks, even Gordo’s loud purr fade out. It’s just him. That unblinking focus, like he’s taking in every breath I’ve taken since the last time we saw each other.
And for a second, I forget that anyone else is here at all.
Fantastic. I’ve officially developed a crush on the scariest man in the room.