though her meaning was clear.
In seconds, he cradled an armful of round apples and a couple of wayward beets. He pinched his cigarette between his lips to free up a hand and helped her rearrange the shopping bags she’d used to line the wire basket. Together, they began to reload her produce.
“Thank you, thank you,” she repeated, but she kept her distance and wouldn’t look at big, bad Dmitri.
“It was my fault,” he muttered.
As if she’d timed it that way, the street was free of vehicles when her cart was full again, and she crossed with evident caution. She didn’t turn to see him wave one final apology.
He ground out the butt of his cigarette and lit another without thinking, strolling back toward his auntie’s house. A lacy curtain moved in the window and the shadow of a dark head appeared.
Caught, he froze with his cigarette in his lips. She was at the door in seconds.
“Put out that disgusting cancer stick this instant and give me a hug.”
He glanced at the barely smoked cigarette, then at his auntie, then back at the cigarette. With a grunt, he let it fall from his fingers and ground it out under his boot. She glared at the butt.
He took the stairs two at a time and opened his arms to her. She seemed even shorter than he remembered, but not much older and just as lively as she sounded over the phone.
She waved her fingers in front of her face, speaking in rapid Ukrainian. “You promised you would quit that foul habit. No smoking at my house.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Auntie.” Back to speaking his native language, his voice sounded normal again.
Extending her own arms, she returned the embrace. “Come inside, you must be starving after the flight.”
“Yeah, pretty hungry.” He pushed his sunglasses up to rest on his head.
Her nose crinkled. “You smell like a drunk bull. Take a shower, and I’ll fix you a meal.”
The dizzying effort of hauling his hungover ass up the stairs caught up with him, and he had to lean his back against the door. Still, it was good to see her after all these years. And hell, somebody was going to the effort to feed him. He tried for a smile. “Thanks.”
“When you have eaten, you will tell me exactly what you are doing here.”
“Sure thing.” He pressed his lips tight. What was he gonna say? Just here to take a guy out. But he’s the last one, I promise.
She hooked his arm and led him through a large living area. “Your room is this way.” A comfortable mishmash of Ukrainian antiques and modern furniture divided the open space into a kitchen, dining area, and a living area with a deep sofa pointing at a flat-screen television.
“Bathroom is across the hall.” She swung open the bedroom door and turned on the light.
Pain bored into his skull and he flipped the light switch off again fast. He dropped his pack. “Be right out.”
Alone in the dark room, he rummaged for a clean shirt and then slid his Glock under the pillow. Fatigue crashed over him at the feel of the soft bed sheets on his knuckles. He could sleep later. First food, then that son of a bitch Makar. He crossed the hallway and found the bathroom.
Ten minutes later, wearing a fresh shirt, he found Elena seated at her dining table. She’d spread out all the trappings of a traditional tea—cakes, fruit, cheeses, and best of all, thick black bread, begging for a smear of sour cream and a spoonful of caviar. After a steady diet of only cigarettes, his empty stomach kicked. But if he could hold down a few mouthfuls, he might be able to think straight.
Elena passed him a plate painted with circular folk patterns. “So, what are you doing here?”
“Business trip,” he replied. “Meeting with some of Gregor’s clients.”
“Really?” She dangled his Glock like a dead rat, raising one of her thick, black, perfectly shaped eyebrows.
Damn. He should have known she would snoop. Nothing to say, he slathered a slice of warm black bread with butter. It smelled yeasty and his stomach grumbled, officially complaining about its hollow state.
“Tell me the truth.”
He shoved the slice in his mouth all at once and mumbled his answer. “Can’t.”
“I dislike it that you work for him.”
He took a good long time chewing and swallowing.
She waited, gaze unwavering.
“We’ve been over this.” As often as she called to check on him, she never stopped harping. He didn’t want to look at her, so he scanned the table for his next bite.
Her dainty little teapot vibrated, like a pot of boiling water with a too-tight lid. He pressed his palm to the curve. It was hot, but nowhere near boiling. Under his hand, it remained perfectly still. Weird. He must be even more tired than he thought.
He pinched the stem of a bunch of yellow-green grapes. To pluck one between his thick fingers always felt ridiculous. If he were alone, he would shove the whole bunch into his mouth and pull the stem out later. But Elena deserved a display of good manners, so he placed one chilled sphere between his lips and cringed as its sweet juice quenched his vodka-parched mouth—so good it hurt. His appetite returned like a ravenous wolf and he reached for another slice of bread.
Elena set her tea plate down with a crash. “I still do not understand how Gregor dragged you into this line of work, my sweet Dmitri, and turned you into the kind of young man who frightens elderly women on the street.”
So she’d seen that. Great. He swiped the back of his hand over his mouth to wipe away any crumbs. “Auntie—”
“Dmitri, listen to me. If you continue down this road—”
He didn’t need her to tell him. “I’m quitting. I just have one thing to take care of first.”
“Something to take care of?” She narrowed her eyes, scary-smart and as crystal blue as his own. “Speaking in euphemisms is a way to distance yourself from your actions.”
No shit. “I’ll try to remember that.”
The teapot bounced half an inch off the table. But Elena didn’t seem to notice. Damn his paranoid imagination.
“Auntie, I need to eat.”
Elena opened her mouth and reached for the teapot. Her jaw jutted in a classic Lisko expression, warning an argument was queuing up on her tongue. But her mobile phone rang, and she frowned at its screen. “This is my department head. I need to take it.”
“No problem. I’ll just keep eating. Pass me that block of cheese.”
She ignored his request and spoke into her phone as she disappeared down the hall. “Hello, Matthew.”
Dmitri lunged to reclaim his gun from where it lay on the far side of the table. He tucked it into his waistband and returned to his seat.
Once again, the teapot jostled like there was a frog inside.
He had to be hallucinating. Holy hell, he’d never been this hungover. Then again, he’d never been on a thirty-day bender either. Quitting cold turkey after a vodka-soaked month was bound to be rough on the system. The teapot was definitely not jittering, only his sanity. Caffeine might help.
He lifted the little round thing by the handle. A gust of steam poured out as deep-brown liquid trickled from its spout into his mug—an antique glass cup wrapped in silver filigree. In his hand, the teapot shook, jostling his arm.
Damn it. That was no hallucination.
A sudden puff of steam collided with his face. He set the teapot down and wiped his moist eyes. When he opened them again, he was certain he’d lost his mind.
Hovering