Chapter 31
Anton
When we step into the lift, I hear Boris’s voice before the doors even close.
“… kept us alive when nobody else gave a shit. Men like that? You don’t betray. You don’t question.”
Then Dima—Dima—answers him. The same Dima who’s allergic to small talk. “Controls more than most who are. He’s the one they call when bodies need disappearing or empires need dismantling. Doesn’t need a throne. He has everyone’s secrets.”
Lev tilts his head toward me, smirking. “They’re talking about you. Real touching stuff. Almost sounds like they’d fuck you if you asked nicely.”
Suka.
I’ve got bigger things to think about than their sentimental bullshit.
Viktor Kozlov is still out there, and every hour he’s free is another hour he could be moving the Pakhan’s stolen money deeper into places we can’t touch.
The last confirmed lead we had was two nights ago: a courier moving through a casino back exit with a bag full of cash. The trail’s thin. Too thin.
But their voices carry through the shaft, loud enough that I can make out every word. Boris is telling her about my grandfather working for the Vetrovs back when organized crime was a lifestyle. About the mob being in my genes.
Dima speaks again—that’s two whole sentences in the same morning, which is already a fucking record—and I have no idea who he is anymore.
Lev leans against the wall, grinning. “Better hope she didn’t make them dessert, or they’ll start telling her your shoe size and blood type.”
I ignore him. We’ve got forty-eight hours to find Viktor, lock down the bank trail, and cut out anyone tied to him, starting with whoever the fuck is pushing those deposits through Brightside. And if Boris is right, that trail leads straight to the woman they’re sitting with now.
The lift doors slide open. I catch the tail end of Dima’s voice, steady and certain: “Doesn’t like chaos. Ever.”
Then Boris, without missing a beat: “Which… might be a problem.”
The doors slide open, and I step into a scene I never planned for.
Mary. Fitted T-shirt, soft lounge shorts. Hair pulled back loose, like she didn’t care enough to finish the job. Bare feet on my floor.
She’s at the island with a fork in her hand, eating like this is her kitchen. At her feet, the orange cat I saw on her balcony is curled against her leg, tail flicking slow and content.
My men—trained, armed, dangerous—are sitting like they’ve been tamed, plates half-finished in front of them. The smell in the air is warm, heavy with herbs and garlic. Not the scent of a safehouse, but of a home.
It’s… domestic. Too domestic.
Lev steps in behind me, his grin already saying he’s going to make this annoying. His eyes go from her to the plates, to the orange cat on the floor licking his paw like he’s just finished Sunday dinner.
“Well, well,” he says, voice dripping mock admiration. “Lunch with the boys. Getting comfortable, huh?”
Mary stiffens, fingers tightening on the edge of the chair. “I was just—”
“You know too much about us now,” Lev cuts in, still smiling, but the edge is there in his tone. “Guess that means you’re stuck with us.”
He makes it sound like a joke, but something in the way he says it tells me he’s not entirely kidding.
He walks past me, picking up one of the plates from the island. Lifts a fork, tastes. His brows go up.
“Shit. This is actually good.”
I don’t move from where I’m standing. I watch her. She’s trying to keep her eyes anywhere but on me, but I can feel the way my presence pulls at her focus.
Lev’s still talking, but I’m not listening anymore.
She finally looks up at me. Holds it for a heartbeat too long. There’s heat there; not enough for her to admit it, but enough for me to see it. The kind of look a woman gives when she’s wondering what it would feel like to get fucked against the nearest hard surface and hates herself for wondering.
My eyes drag to her mouth. Soft, flushed from biting her lip. She could wrap those lips around me, and I’d watch every second of it. Her cheeks hollowing, those pretty sounds breaking out of her before she can swallow them down.
Then her throat, pale, smooth, begging for my hand. I want to feel her swallow with my palm at her neck, my cock buried in her until she’s shaking apart.
Lev’s earlier joke about fucking her flashes through my head, and for half a second, I let myself picture it: her bent over this counter, my hand in her hair, her breath catching on every thrust. Hearing her moan in this kitchen, where my men are eating like nothing’s wrong.
Her lips move.
“Do… you want some, too?”
It takes me a second to process that she’s talking about food.
“What?” My voice comes out lower than I mean it to.
She blinks. “The food. Do you want—?”
“No.” Too sharp, too fast. Because right now, the last thing I’m thinking about is eating lunch.
Boris sets his fork down like it’s just occurred to him he has taste buds. “Boss, this is really good. Like… actual food. Not that vacuum-packed survival shit you keep in your freezer.”
Lev’s already dropped into the chair across from Mary, chewing like he’s in a commercial for expensive dental work.
“Come on, boss. You’ve only had coffee and… What was that this morning? Cold dumplings from the place Boris swears is better after midnight.”
I don’t answer.
Mary shifts, sliding off her chair.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
She doesn’t look at me, just moves to the stove. “Getting you some before they inhale the rest.”
I should tell her no. I don’t want her serving me like—
Her hip brushes my thigh as she leans past, and my brain just… stops.
The smell hits me first. Rosemary from her balcony pots. Garlic on her hands from brushing the toast. And underneath it, the warm, human scent that makes my cock twitch before I can think about stopping it.
She scoops eggs onto a plate, grabs a slice of toast, and sets it in front of me like this is some kind of family meal. Then she sits back down… next to me.
Too close.
Close enough that Lev’s smirk shifts from amused to knowing.
Close enough that Boris is absolutely getting a whiff of her too, and that’s… not fucking acceptable.
“Eat,” Mary says, like she’s the one giving orders here.
I pick up the fork just to shut her up. The eggs are… Fuck. They’re actually good. Light, soft, with that hint of rosemary, like she knows how to use it without turning the plate into a soap commercial.
Lev leans back in his chair, still chewing. “See? Told you. Man can’t live on caffeine alone.”
Boris snorts. “Though it explains his mood most days.”
Mary’s shoulders twitch like she’s holding in a laugh.
Lev just leans back in his chair, chewing slowly, watching her like she’s entertainment.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing,” she says, but her mouth quirks. “Just trying to decide if you’re always this… much.”
Boris chuckles, and Mary’s got this small, almost cautious smile now. She looks… at ease. Like she’s found the rhythm here, slipping into conversation with Lev and Boris like she’s known them longer than a day.
I don’t like that.
I don’t like that she’s making them comfortable—and worse, that they’re doing the same for her.
Because if she belongs here, she’s mine.
And if she’s mine, then I’ve got no excuse for why I’m sitting here smelling her hair like a fucking addict instead of getting up and handling the problem that brought her here in the first place.
Lev points his fork at me. “What do you call this anyway?”
Mary answers before I can. “Lunch.”
He grins. “Best lunch I’ve had in months. Which, considering the last thing I made was ramen with jerky in it, is a pretty low bar.”
Mary wrinkles her nose. “That’s… horrifying.”
Boris shrugs. “Not as horrifying as whatever Anton had before this. Bet it was cold.”
I shoot him a look.
Lev grins wider. “Bet it was something out of the fridge you didn’t bother heating up.”
Mary bites her lip. “Is that true?”
Lev tilts his head at me like he’s asking permission to tell her. “Half a chicken cutlet. Standing over the sink.”
Mary stares at me, then laughs—actually laughs—and my cock twitches again, because apparently all it takes to short-circuit me now is her making a sound my men get to hear too.
Lev leans his elbow on the table. “See, boss? You needed this. A little garlic. A little rosemary. A little,” he waves his fork in her direction, “Mary.”
I put the fork down before I snap it in half.
The cat chooses that exact moment to wander over. He hops onto Mary’s lap, curls his tail around himself, and gives me a slow blink.
Mary strokes his head. “Hey, Gordo.”
Boris raises a brow. “Your cat’s fitting in fast.”
Mary shakes her head. “He’s Essie’s, actually. He just… shows up at my place.”
Lev reaches over to scratch the cat’s chin. “Smart animal. Knows where the good food is.”
I glare at him because now even the damn cat is too close.
Mary looks up at me. “You okay?”
No.
I’m not okay with my men eating her food, smelling her hair, hearing her laugh, petting the cat on her lap like this is some kind of social.
I’m not okay with the fact that maybe Lev was right.
It’s been too long.
I lean back, watching her fingers move over the cat’s fur, the way her shoulders have lost that stiff, new-prisoner tension. She’s sitting like she’s not just allowed to be here—it’s like she belongs.
And I’ve seen that look before. My men wear it after a job that went cleaner than expected. It’s relief. Safety. She’s found some in this room, and I can’t decide if I hate it or need it to stay.
Boris wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “So, Mary… you always cook like this?”
She shrugs, but there’s a flicker of pride there.
“I like cooking. Always have. My grandma used to say that feeding people is like telling them you want them to live. She’d make these big Sunday dinners—roast chicken, fresh bread, pie cooling in the window.
Half the neighbors would show up. She never turned anyone away. ”
Lev grins, fork pointing at his plate. “Guess you got that from her.”
Mary smiles faintly. “Maybe. I like the… quiet of it. You follow the steps, you end up with something warm you can share. Not like life, where you can do everything right and still…” She trails off, then clears her throat.
“Anyway. Haven’t had much reason to, lately.
It’s just me and Grandma now. And she’s not big on sitting down for dinner anymore. ”
That pulls Dima’s eyes up from his plate. That’s rare.
“This is… nice,” she says, almost surprised by it.
Three pairs of eyes on her now.
“It’s been a while since I’ve had a meal with more than one person,” she adds. “A real meal. Not just…” She flicks her fingers toward Lev. “Ramen with jerky.”
Lev grins. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Her smile turns a little wistful. “When I was little, I used to imagine that kind of thing. Sitting around a table, passing plates, everyone talking. But it never happened. Not once with my dad. Just him and my stepsister.”
That kind of absence—no one to eat with, no one making a plate for you—leaves a mark you don’t see until years later.
I know.
I know what it’s like to eat in silence because your father’s still out running someone else’s errands and your mother’s working herself raw cleaning apartments that aren’t yours. To hear cutlery clinking in other people’s kitchens through thin walls and know you’ll never sit at that table.
I shake it off. Stop being a pussy.
She breaks the silence. “When do you think this will end?”
It’s not naive. It’s the kind of question you ask when you’ve already checked every avenue and found them all blocked.
I don’t answer. Lev does. “When we find Viktor Kozlov and put him in the ground.”
She nods like she’s taking notes in her head. No flinch. No looking away. Just steady, watching me like she’s trying to figure out what’s under the part I let people see.
And I don’t like that.
Gordo shifts in her lap, stretching one paw against her stomach.
She laughs—low, unguarded, the kind that breaks open her face without warning.
I catch the flash of her front teeth, the way her hand drifts up like she might cover her mouth but doesn’t.
Her eyes go brighter when she laughs, hazel catching the light until it’s almost gold.
I look away, busy myself with the plate. I tell myself I don’t care. I tell myself it’s irrelevant. She’s here for one reason—to get me something I can put in front of the Pakhan that proves Timofey’s a snake. That’s it.
She’s still watching me, silently assessing.
And I don’t like that either.
Because I can feel the room narrowing to her eyes, her mouth, her voice. I can feel myself getting pulled into something I have no business wanting.
I look up and she catches my eye. There’s a spark of hope in it before she asks, “If you want, I could cook dinner. Something bigger. You know… if you’re here.”
Boris’s face lights up like she offered him a winning lottery ticket. Lev groans out a loud “Yes,” before I can open my mouth. Even Dima’s expression shifts—subtle, but it’s there.
I shut it down before they start negotiating a menu. “No. We don’t have time for that.”
The table dips into silence for half a beat.
Lev slumps back in his chair. “Booo.”
Boris stabs another bite, muttering, “Would’ve been nice.”
Even Dima looks… disappointed.
They don’t get it. We’ve got forty-eight hours to find Viktor Kozlov, track the stolen money, and shove it under the Pakhan’s nose before Timofey spins another lie. I’m not wasting a night on roast chicken and pie, no matter how fucking good it might smell.
Mary just gives a little shrug, like she expected that answer. “Okay. But… you’re all finishing what’s on your plate. No excuses.”
And they do. Every bite.
Before Lev can ask for seconds, I push my chair back.
Time to get moving—before this turns into something I can’t pull them, or myself, out of.