Page 34 of Cashmere Cruelty

They’re the only thing I have left of her.

I shake off the memories. It won’t do me any good to think of the past now. My grandma’s gone, and so is the home we shared.

And now, I’m going to have to say goodbye to another home.

Suddenly, there’s a knock on the door. “Ms. Flowers?”

I recognize the voice. It’s whatshisname—Sasha or Gasha or Misha or whatever. “Come in!”

Matvey’s guy pokes his head in. “Apologies for the intrusion, ladies. Is there anything I can assist you with, Ms. Flowers?”

I blink. If I didn’t know for dead-ass certain this guy was a mobster, I’d think my baby daddy sent over his prim and proper butler. “Oh, I, um—no. No, thank you, we’re almost done.”

“As you wish.” Kosha-or-Whatever tilts his hat from the doorway, then takes it off before stepping in. Again: rather dapper for a hired gun. “And you must be Ms. Evans.”

I never told him that. For June’s sake, I pretend I didn’t just realize the father of my child is apparently spying on us.Great.

Yasha-I-Think takes June’s hand in his gloved one and honest-to-godbows. “My name is Grisha Aldonin, at your service.”

Right, that’s his name: Grisha.

June is rendered speechless. A hard feat to achieve, if I do say—wait, is sheblushing? “June Evans. N-Nice to meet you.”

“Enchanté.”

What are you, theFrenchmob now?“Actually, Mr. Aldonin?—”

“Please,” the Moscow dandy interrupts. “Call me Grisha.”

“Grisha,” I amend. “Could I trouble you to bring down a couple of boxes? I can’t really lift anything heavy.”

“Nor should you,” he promptly agrees. “Ilya. Anatoly.”

With a single snap of his fingers, two burly bodyguards emerge at my door. Now,I’mspeechless. Whoever this Grisha guy is, he’s like the fairy godmother of mobsters. The fairy Godfather, if you will.

Without a word, the two henchmen begin to cart down my belongings: four boxes, three bags, two suitcases. All that’s missing is the partridge in the pear tree.

Speaking of, I make my way over to Buttons. “Behave while I’m gone,” I tell him sternly, looking him straight in his only remaining eye. “No more playing Tarzan with the curtains.”

“Or my skirts,” June adds.

“Or June’s skirts.”

Buttons doesn’t give me any sign of life. Not that I expected differently: ever since he turned ten, he’s become the laziest couch potato in history. He offers me a slow blink and curls back up on the cushions. Then, just in case he’s gotten into trouble, he starts purring.

You big, fat ruffian. I’m gonna miss you, too.

“Thank you,” I say, turning to June. “For looking after him.”

June rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile on her face. “What was I gonna do, feed him to the wolves?”

“To the subway rats, maybe.”

“They’ve gotten bigger than him, haven’t they?”

“Speaking of transportation,” I whirl around, addressing Grisha this time. “Our car’s still in the hospital parking lot. I don’t suppose you could…?”

“I’ll put my people on it,” he assures me.

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