Page 78 of Mafia and Scars

My grandmother’s frown deepens, ready to scold me into next week. Until she really looks at the dog. And her stern face softens in an instant.“Oh, poor baby,”she breathes, bending down to pat the retriever’s head.

“Yeah,”I say quietly in Russian.“Found him outside the gym. No collar, no nothing.”

Babulya clicks her tongue.“You did the right thing bringing him in.”

I tear up the chicken and set it on a plate, crouching to let the dog eat while Babulya strokes his back and murmurs to him in Russian. The retriever devours the food in minutes, then looks up at me with gratitude shining in his eyes.

“Guess you’ve got the Baba seal of approval,” I mutter. I scoop the dog into my arms and take him upstairs and into the bathroom. I run a warm bath and gently lower him into the water. He sighs, leaning into my hands as I scrub away weeks of dirt and neglect.

By the time he’s clean and dry, he smells faintly of soap and looks up at me with something like hope. “I’ll call youPrince Albert, I think,” I murmur to him. “That goes perfectly withQueen Victoria.”

I leave him in the bathroom so that I can set things up in the bedroomwhere Sofia and Leon are sleeping. Queenie has taken to sleeping in here every night, and for some reason, I think Albert will feel safer with another animal at his side on the nights I have to go out for work.

When I push open my bedroom door with my foot, Queenie lifts her head from the windowsill. She blinks at me slowly, tail flicking lazily.

Then she watches me carefully as I start moving things around. I drag an old comforter from the closet and pile it in the corner, layering it with a soft fleece blanket. Queenie jumps down and lands with a soft thud beside me, letting out a questioningmeow.

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, fluffing the blankets. “I know. This is supposed to beyourkingdom.”

Queenie tilts her head, clearly unimpressed with my interior decorating skills. Then she freezes, and her orange-tipped ears perk forward. She sniffs the air, her small snout twitching.

Albert wanders into the room, looking around tentatively before he stills as he sees Queenie.

I tense, ready to scoop one or the other out of the way before a scuffle breaks out.

Instead, Queenie lets out a little chirp, and a split second later, she’s hurrying right up to Albert and reaching up to rub her tiny snout against his much bigger one. Then she rubs her face against his damp fur like they’ve been friends forever.

“What the…?” I blink.

Albert whines softly, leaning down to lick the top of Queenie’s head. Then, without hesitation, they both climb onto the nest of blankets and curl up together, Queenie purring like an expensive engine while Albert lets out a long, relieved sigh.

I crouch down, watching them in stunned silence. They don’t just like each other. Theyknoweach other. There’s a familiarity between them.

“Well, fuck me,” I whisper. “You two were strays together, weren’t you?” Because I can see there’s already a bond between them…and I don’t know how, but I recognize it as being similar to the bond I formed with Grigory, Nikolai, and Matvey when I met them on the streets in Moscow.

Albert lifts his head at my voice, his eyes shining.

My chest tightens. I think about the lonely, cold nights they must’ve shared—Vegas nights can be surprisingly cold in winter—huddled together for warmth, depending on each other to survive.

“You stuck by each other,” I murmur, reaching out to scratch Queenie under the chin and stroke Albert’s soft ear. I wonder how they ended up separated before feeling a sense of relief at knowing they’re together again.

For a long moment, I just crouch beside them, my heart caught somewhere between aching and full.

“Guess you both found your way home,” I whisper.

Queenie purrs louder. Albert gives my hand a gentle lick.

And as I look at them, I feel my lips tugging upward.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

AVELINA

At the end of the day, the house settles into its familiar nighttime quiet, broken only by the soft footsteps of guards patrolling the grounds. I linger outside the children’s room, watching Babulya’s weathered hands turn the pages ofAlice in Wonderlandfor Sofia’s third reading tonight. Leon shifts in his crib but doesn’t wake.

I didn’t know what to make of Viktor’s grandmother when I first arrived. Her reaction to me, her whole wing of the house, her fierce Russian scolding of careless soldiers, her knowing blue eyes that sparkle just like Viktor’s. And when she spoke Russian to me, testing whether I understood, and her reaction when I did… The memories tug up my lips.

“Baba, I’m heading out,”I murmur in Russian.“An hour, maybe two. Are you sure you’ll be okay with the children? You’re not too tired? Because I can always stay?—”