28. Chapter 28

28

Wren

I step out of the bathroom, eyes zeroing in on the burner phone on the nightstand. I grab it, checking for missed calls or messages.

Nothing. Nada. Zip.

"Fuck," I mutter, tossing the phone back down. It bounces once, mocking me with its silence. This waiting game is driving me up the fucking wall.

What am I even waiting for, anyway? D to call and tell me everything's peachy keen? That I can skip back to my shithole apartment and pretend last night never happened?

Or maybe he'll ring up with a cheery "Hey, just checked on your siblings; they're fan-fucking-tastic!" Like he's some kind of tattooed, homicidal Mary Poppins.

I spit out, my jaw tight. What the hell's wrong with me? Since when do I sound like some fucking princess in need of rescue?

Christ on a cracker, how does he know so much about me, anyway? Did I drunk-dial the Russian mob and spill my guts at some point? Fuck, I can't think straight. My brain feels like it's been put through a meat grinder.

"Screw it," I mutter, snatching the phone. My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since… Well, I can't even remember. Time to raid this place for something edible.

I fling the bedroom door open, wincing at the ear-splitting creak. Jesus fuck, that's loud. D needs to oil this shit before it wakes the whole damn neighborhood. Reminds me of Em and Lenny's room back home—that door screamed like a banshee every time those little terrors snuck out for a midnight snack.

My eyes catch on the worn edges of the doorframe, paint chipped and wood smooth. Huh. Place looks lived in. Real. Not like those fake-ass perfect houses you see on TV. This joint's got character; I'll give it that.

Phone in hand, I peer out cautiously, half-expecting to find a guard or some shit. But there's nothing but an empty hallway stretching out before me.

I creep down the stairs, my bare feet silent on the polished wood. The house unfolds before me, a stark contrast to the sleek apartment we were in last week.

This place is… cozy. But there's more work to be done. There's a wall lined with shelves crammed with toy cars of all shapes and sizes. I snort, picturing D hunched over, arranging his little Hot Wheels.

"Big bad Bratva with his matchbox collection," I mutter, shaking my head. My fingers trail along a bookshelf, catching dust.

How many fucking houses does this guy need?

But this one feels different. Less like a showpiece and more like… a home. The thought makes my stomach clench in a way that has nothing to do with hunger.

I pad into the kitchen, eyebrows shooting up at the sight. It's fully kitted out—gleaming appliances, a massive island, the works. I can't help but laugh.

"What? Did you think the big bad Russian survived on vodka and air?" I chide myself. Still, the image of D in an apron, flipping pancakes, is enough to make me snicker.

The fridge beckons, and I pull it open, curiosity getting the better of me.

"Holy shit," I breathe. It's stocked like a fucking bomb shelter. There's enough food in here to feed a small army—or one very hungry stripper. I spot containers of what looks like borscht, a metric fuckton of eggs, and more types of cheese than I knew existed. There's beer, of course, because stereotypes exist for a reason. But nestled next to the Stolichnaya, I spot a carton of… almond milk?

"Who the fuck are you, D?" I laugh.

My reflection in the steel makes me cringe. "Christ, Wren, you look like shit." I scowl, raking my fingers through my greasy hair. An elastic band on the counter saves my ass, and I wrangle my mop into something resembling a bun before my stomach growls like a pissed-off Rottweiler.

"Yeah, yeah, I hear ya," I mutter, tossing my phone on the counter. Time to feed the beast.

Eggs, check. And hello, beautiful—German sausages. Long, thick ones that make me snicker like a twelve-year-old. "Bet D knows how to handle his wurst," I quip, then groan. "Christ, Wren, get your mind outta the gutter."

But it's too late. My brain's already there, replaying last night's highlight reel. D's cock, hard and huge and—fuck. I shake my head, scowling at the sizzling pan. "Focus on the damn food, you horny bitch."

As I'm frying up breakfast, guilt starts gnawing at me like a bad hangover. Shit, I didn't tell Joe I wouldn't be in today. Or Monday. I let out a long sigh. I actually like that grease trap of a diner, but Joe hates it when people ghost him. Add it to the growing pile of shit I gotta sort out.

The trees outside catch my eye, tall bastards swaying in the breeze. It's weirdly peaceful, considering I'm holed up in some mobster's safe house.

"Get a grip," I growl at myself. "He's probably off breaking kneecaps or whatever the fuck mafia types do on a Friday afternoon."

Just then, I hear the rumble of a car engine.

Shit on a stick. Is it D?

Double shit. I look like I've been dragged through hell backward, and my pits smell like something crawled up there and died. But it's too late to do anything—the door's already creaking open.

I freeze, spatula in hand, wondering if I should use it as a weapon or offer the intruder some eggs.

I take a deep breath and freeze. Maybe the spatula can double as a weapon; maybe I'll just offer them some eggs. My heart is racing, my adrenaline spiking like I'm on stage doing a pole routine, but why the hell do I care?

Bitchslap.

A good question.

Why am I suddenly worried about what D thinks?