Chapter 32 #2
“Bossy,” I mutter, but I pick up the spoon. The first mouthful unclenches something low in my chest I didn’t know was still tight. “Thank you.”
She grunts, that almost-affectionate sound she does when she wants to hide it. Her gaze flicks to the gym bag near my foot. Not subtle. Nothing about her ever is. “You worked hard?”
“I ran until my lungs hated me.” I take another spoon, blow, sip. “Helps me think.”
“What about?”
“Chess.” I keep my tone light. “Boxes. Letters.”
Her face stays bland. “You like puzzles.”
“I like answers. Did you ever bank on the Strand, Katya?”
“Many banks on the Strand.”
“Coutts,” I say, tasting the word. “Very old-world. Very pearls-at-funerals.”
“Too posh for me.”
“Mm.” I close the pouch. “What does P stand for?”
Her eyes lift to mine, flat as a lake before a storm. “Potatoes.”
I huff. “You’re impossible.”
“You’re nosy,” she fires back without heat. She studies my face like she’s counting pulse points. “You look less… spinny.”
“Running helps.” I glance at the window. The mist has thickened, a soft blur over clipped hedges. “Tomorrow’s a slaughterhouse.”
“Only if you walk in like meat.” She points her chin at my pearls. “You look like a lady. Speak like a blade.”
“Working on it.” I sip water, the tracker cold against my skin when the glass kisses the bracelet. “Do you like your name?”
“Strange question.”
“I found it looks nice on paper.” I tilt my head. “Katya Kirova.”
Her mouth twists. “It has done what it needed to do.”
“Which is?”
“Keep me alive long enough to keep you alive.” She moves to the wardrobe and fusses with a dress that wasn’t there before. Funeral wear, I’m guessing. “I will be two steps behind you in the church. If I tell you to walk, you walk. If I tell you to smile, you smile. If I push you, you run.”
“Left side,” I say. “Blade in your special bag.”
Her mouth softens, proud and grim at once. “Umnitsa.”
The praise washes over me. “Katya?”
“Yes.”
“There is a change of plans.”
Her eyebrow arches, but she doesn’t argue, simply waits for what I have to say.
“I’m killing Nik tomorrow,” I state. “I don’t want his presence hanging over my head. You need to help me. Roman won’t let me get within a hundred metres of him.”
“What makes you think I will?”
“Dad left you here to work for me.”
She gives me a sour stare. “Pakhan said no killing in the church.”
“He is not my pakhan.”
She hisses. “Girl plays with fire.”
“Then let me learn to hold it without burning,” I say, calmly. “He breathes, and I choke on it. I won’t do that for the rest of my life.”
Katya studies me. It isn’t maternal. It’s an assessment. “You think a blade makes you free? Death inside the church turns him from snake to saint.” She taps the side of her nose. “You want him small. You cut his legs, not his throat.”
“I want certainty.”
“Certainty is for graves,” she says, almost kind. “You want an outcome. Outcome is him finished. There are many ways to finish a man.”
“Teach me one.”
She goes still, then nods once. “If he reaches for you, you take his hand at the thumb and crack it. You step into him, not back. Knee to groin, heel to instep, twist, disarm. If he draws a gun, Roman will take it. If he draws a knife, I will take him. You understand me?”
It lands. Not as a rule. As survival. “I understand.”
She reaches into her apron, produces a small lacquered case, and snaps it open. A hairpin gleams, long, thin, wicked at the tip. “For tomorrow. It holds a seam if you need it. It opens a throat if you must.”
I take it. The weight is nothing. The promise isn’t. “Thank you.”
“You still talk like you plan to kill him,” she mutters.
“I plan to end him,” I answer. “If that requires blood, I won’t flinch.”
Something like pride cuts across her face and vanishes.
“Good. Then listen.” She steps in close and takes my hand, positions my thumb and forefinger, turns my wrist to show the angle.
“When you read, keep the paper high. If he charges early, you blind his knife hand with the page and rake his eyes with the edge. Paper cuts. Men scream. You move left. I move left. Roman blocks.”
“Left,” I repeat. “I have it.”
She nods, satisfied, then moves to the tray and fusses with the napkin to hide the fact she’s rattled too. “Eat more.”
I swallow two more spoonfuls because if I don’t, she will feed me like a toddler. “Katya,” I say, keeping my tone light, “what does P stand for?”
“Potatoes.” A beat, then she sighs as if I’m a stone in her shoe. “Protection.”
“Box twenty-four—”
“—stays closed until after tomorrow,” she cuts in. “You open doors, you invite draughts. You have enough today.”
My laugh is thin. “You never mix metaphors?”
“I never mix anything.” She lifts her chin. “You give me the key when we get back from the church.”
“Why not now?”
“Because you will think all day about what is inside. You need a clean head.”
“I don’t do clean,” I say. “I do sharp.”
“Then be sharp,” she returns. “And trust me.”
“What’s in the box, Katya?”
She huffs. “You are like a dog with a bone.”
“So you might as well tell me, or I will hound you until you do. See what I did there?”
She snorts. “Clever. It is what your father offered me to protect you. It stays buried. For now.”
“Money? Estates? What?”
“Which part of buried aren’t you familiar with?” she snaps.
“The part where I don’t want to be buried next to my father,” I say, the lie coming easily.
“It has nothing to do with you and everything to do with my father and me.”
I blink as the slots fall into place. “Sergei Kirov.” Hard-core Bratva. Went against the narrative. Was imprisoned in the Motherland. No wonder Katya is a Russian She-bear with Sergei for a father. “Dad has info on how to break him out?” I mutter.
“Hush,” she snaps, moving closer. “This is none of your concern.”
“You’re right. It’s not.” I reach into the bag and pull out the key. “Here. I want nothing to do with this.”
She snatches it up. “You give me this too soon. What makes you think I won’t abandon you now for the nearest airport?”
“Because you won’t. I have faith.” I sit back, my gaze unwavering.
Katya tucks the key into the deep pocket of her apron like it’s a live wire. The tiny lines at the corner of her eyes soften for a second, then sharpen again.
“Faith is for icons,” she mutters. “I prefer guarantees.”
“You’ll get one tomorrow,” I say. “On the dais. In front of everyone. I want Nik dead. Tomorrow. Whether or not it causes a fuss.”
She searches my eyes for something that I think she finds and nods. “You have the guts for it?”
Good fucking question. I have never killed before. “I guess we’ll find out.”
“Find out now, Devochka. You hesitate tomorrow, you are the one who is dead.”
My hands shake as she leaves, and I hope I made the right choice giving her the key. But something tells me she will still be here, having my back. But if she’s not, then I need to make damn sure I can shoot Nik and leave him to bleed out in front of God.