Chapter 32
Mary
The plates are still warm in the sink. I’m elbow-deep in suds, glaring at a smear of rosemary on the cutting board.
Behind me, there’s a thump. I turn and find Gordo rubbing his fat orange body along the leg of Anton’s expensive furniture, tail twitching like he’s reclaiming the penthouse for House Cat. He does a slow figure eight around the chair leg, then the sofa, then back to me, marking everything in sight.
I watch him for a second, dishwater dripping off my fingers. “Great. You live here now, too.”
He blinks up at me, slow and smug, before hopping onto the counter like it’s always been his.
It’s still noon, sunlight slicing across the kitchen floor like I’m supposed to be having a normal Saturday.
And here I am, standing in a stranger’s penthouse, technically a captive but not locked up, not tied down.
Just… here. Free to open the fridge, water the plants, maybe reorganize the spice drawer.
Is this what house arrest looks like in the mafia?
God. What was I thinking?
Cooking. Eating. Laughing. With them.
I splash water on my face, slap my own cheek lightly.
“Snap out of it,” I mutter. “This is not Sunday dinner. This is… federal witness protection with a body count.”
But my head won’t stop drifting back to him.
Anton.
The way he looked at me like I’d committed some unspeakable crime by making scrambled eggs. Green eyes locked so hard I forgot how to breathe. Mesmerizing. Terrifying. And somehow… I want to see him smile. Just once. I want to know what he likes to eat, what he’d ask for if he let himself.
God, I’ve lost it.
I dry my hands and pick up my phone. I should let Essie know I’ve got Gordo before she starts knocking on doors.
She picks up on the third ring, her voice rushed, background noise full of clattering carts and muffled announcements. “Mary, mija, everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I say quickly. “Sorry, um… I accidentally packed Gordo with me. He slipped into the carrier while I was moving stuff. He’s here.”
There’s a pause. Then Essie laughs, tired and surprised. “What? You took the cat?”
“Well, not on purpose,” I say, scratching under Gordo’s chin as he stretches across the counter like he owns it. “But he’s here now.”
“Good thing you called,” she says. “I’ve been in New York for three days. Manny’s appendix burst, so I came to help while he had surgery. He’s fine now, but I asked Mrs. Henderson to check on Gordo for me.”
My stomach dips. That explains why she had no idea.
“I… hope Manny’s okay,” I say quietly.
“Oh, he is, mija. Thanks for asking. I’m glad Gordo is with you. He’s liked you since he was a kitten.” A beat. Then: “Wait… did you move out?”
“I—” My stomach knots. Right. Cover story. “Oh… um… I’m at Jasper’s place,” I lie. “Just for a bit. He, uh… let me borrow it.”
Silence. Just long enough to make my throat tighten.
Then, softly: “Are you okay?”
God. I hate lying.
“Yes, Essie. I’m fine.” The words scrape out stiff, too quick.
She sighs, relieved. “Good. Then feed my boy and don’t let him trick you into more than two cans a day. He’ll eat until he bursts.”
“Yeah,” I manage, watching Gordo curl into an orange comma on Anton’s pristine counter. “Don’t worry. I’ll pick up food for him. You just… take care of Manny.”
“Always,” she says warmly.
We hang up, and I’m left staring at the silent phone, my chest buzzing with guilt. She has no idea. None. And maybe that’s better. Maybe that’s the only way she’ll stay safe.
I run a hand through my hair, glance at the empty penthouse. Gordo yawns, tail twitching.
“Guess it’s just you and me, huh?”
He blinks like he agrees, then rolls to his side, fat belly on display.
I envy him.
My eyes drift past him to the kitchen windowsill.
My balcony herbs—the ones Boris hauled over in his gorilla arms—sit there in neat little rows like spies from my old life.
Basil, rosemary, thyme. And outside, through the glass doors, the bigger pots: the aloe that refuses to die, the jade plant I’ve had since college, all lined up like they’ve belonged here forever.
It’s disorienting. Cozy and wrong at the same time. Like someone picked up my apartment and dropped it in the middle of a mafia safehouse.
I glance back at the clock. Still Saturday. Still noon.
My weekends used to mean scrubbing the bathroom until it smelled like bleach, juggling laundry cycles, maybe five straight hours of rom-coms I swear I hate but still cry through anyway.
Now? My to-do list looks like:
Don’t die.
Don’t piss off the scary Russian with the green eyes.
Buy cat food.
Cat food.
I glance at Gordo, who’s stretched out across the marble like a beached pumpkin. He snores once, tail flicking like he’s dreaming of tuna.
“Essie said two cans a day,” I mutter. “And all I’ve got is leftover chicken. Which makes me a terrible person, apparently.”
The smart thing would be to text Anton. Ask permission like a good little captive. But my phone shows no response to my earlier messages, and something about asking a man with a gun if I can buy Fancy Feast makes my skin crawl.
It’s cat food. A ten-minute trip to the corner store. What’s the worst that could happen?
I move to the window where Boris arranged my plants. The basil looks droopy, leaves curling at the edges. The rosemary’s fine—it always is—but my little tomato plant looks stressed, probably from the move. I touch a yellowing leaf, and it crumbles between my fingers.
I look around the penthouse again, too clean for me to even pretend I’m useful. No laundry. No dust. Even the windows sparkle. The only things that feel like mine are those plants and the rotund feline drooling on Anton’s countertop.
And my books.
The thought sneaks up out of nowhere. My stack of novels is still on my nightstand back at the apartment. The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo—page twelve. The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue—untouched. Pride and Prejudice—highlighted to death.
I could grab them. Cat food.
My keys are on the kitchen counter where I left them. My wallet’s in my purse. The elevator works fine.
I’m not a prisoner.
Am I?
I pick up my phone, thumb hovering over Anton’s name. Then I remember the way he looked at me this morning—like I was some kind of problem without a solution.
And I’m sitting here asking permission to buy cat food.
I type:
Going to get cat food. Back soon.
Send.
The dots don’t appear.
No reply.
I wait thirty seconds. A minute. Nothing.
Of course not. He’s busy being terrifying somewhere.
Still, something in me pinches. The way he brushed me off at lunch, like I was offering poison instead of dinner.
That look that said, “No time, no space, not for you.” It shouldn’t matter.
He’s not supposed to matter. But it feels too familiar.
Like all the other times someone made it clear I wasn’t worth sitting down for.
My dad skipping meals. Evan forgetting birthdays.
A hundred little rejections stacked until they feel like my spine.
The thought squeezes my chest, sharp enough that I let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a groan. Pathetic. I slap my palms over my face, drag them down hard.
“Jesus, Mary. You’re not twelve. You don’t need Daddy to clap because you made lasagna.”
The kitchen swallows the words. I take one of those deep, too-loud breaths meant to reset myself, but it only rattles in my throat.
Gordo opens one eye, studies me for a moment, then goes back to sleep. Even he thinks I’m overthinking this.
Fuck this.
I grab my keys.
The elevator ride feels like I’m sneaking out of detention. My pulse is way too high for a grocery run. By the time I hit the street, the Vegas heat smacks me like a hair dryer to the face. Normal. So normal it almost makes me dizzy.
I tighten my grip on my bag until the strap bites into my palm. Look left, then right—like I’m in some spy thriller, checking for tails. Nobody’s there. Just a couple arguing outside a coffee shop, some kid skateboarding past, the usual Vegas chaos. Still, I check again.
The watch Anton strapped on me glints in the sun, the matching bracelet snug around my wrist. Both expensive, both heavy. Both bugs.
I can practically hear his voice in my head: Don’t take them off.
Great. So not only am I sneaking out, I’m sneaking out under surveillance. Which means if he’s listening right now, he already knows I’m breaking the unspoken rules. And if he isn’t listening? That’s worse.
I swallow hard, twisting the bracelet like I might pry it off. I don’t.
My old building is only fifteen minutes away by bus. Twenty-minute walk. I could grab the cat food on the way back and pick up my books.
It’s not rebellion, I tell myself as I wait for the bus. It’s practical.
But when the doors open and I climb the steps, something loosens in my chest that I didn’t realize was knotted tight.
For the first time in days, I’m not being watched.
Or so I think.
The ride passes in a blur of familiar stops and faces. When I finally climb the stairs to my old apartment, the building smells like it always has, cleaning products and other people’s cooking, and something vaguely chemical from the laundry room. Home.
Except it doesn’t feel like home anymore.
Everything looks smaller. Darker. Like I’ve been living in someone else’s life and just remembered what mine looked like.
I unlock the door.
The smell hits before the sight does.
Cologne. Too much. The one that used to stick to my pillow long after Evan left, back when that felt like comfort. Now it just smells like a warning.
My chest tightens.
I freeze, hand still on the doorknob.
Then: “There you are.”
His voice.
Evan steps out of my bedroom like he owns it. Hair mussed, shirt wrinkled, that smirk sharp enough to slice skin.
My stomach drops to the floor.