10. April

10

APRIL

"What do you mean, he won't let you take Buttons?!"

I sigh. Of all things to be outraged about, I had a feeling June would pick this one. "The hotel has a no-pet policy. He said he can get it changed, but it'll take until the next board meeting."

"I don't get it," June harrumphs, crossing her arms. "I thought he owned the place. Can't he just do whatever he wants?"

Oh, he does. If the way he behaved in my shop is anything to go by, Matvey Groza is the kind of man who only learns the rules so he can better break them. But it didn't feel like a hill worth dying on— sorry, Mr. Buttons —so I didn't.

This is just for a few weeks, anyway.

"It's okay, June," I reassure my best friend as we pack up the last of my clothes. "Really."

"Doesn't feel okay to me," June grumbles. She drops cross-legged on the bed with Mr. Buttons in her lap. "None of this does."

I go sit near her. Like this, with her cheeks all puffed up, she looks like a very pouty hamster. "It'll be fine. I promise."

For a moment, June doesn't answer—just keeps tormenting Mr. Buttons's ears like they're made of playdough. Not that he minds.

"What if you didn't go?" she blurts out. "What if you stayed?"

I think back to yesterday. To the black van, the way its doors had swallowed me whole. To the men inside, both armed, both violent, both ready to do God only knows what to me.

"I can't, Jay. You know I can't."

"I'll get a gun!" June tries. "We both will. We'll splurge on a nice security system and?—"

"And it won't matter one bit," I cut her off gently. "These aren't the kind of guys who'll let a locked door stop them. And I can't risk your life, too."

"I can protect myself," June objects. "I'll protect you, too. You and Nugget."

"From the actual mob ?" I laugh, but not unkindly. The image of June Evans guarding the door with a Kalashnikov is certainly one I'd like to see.

"I don't care if Don fucking Corleone shows up—I can take him."

"I'm sure you could, babe." I pull her into a hug. June makes a noise like a kettle close to boiling, but doesn't resist. "Thanks, Jay. It means a lot to me."

"But you're still going."

I take a breath. "Yeah. Yeah, I am."

When I pull back, I can see that June's eyes are watery. Goddammit—she's gonna make me cry, too.

But then she rubs her face with her sleeve and says, like nothing happened, "Alright then. Let's go pack your books."

June Evans. Ever since first grade, she's been my rock. Whenever the other kids were picking on me, making fun of my name and my proverbial bad luck, June was the only one who stood up for me. She came swooping into the playground like a knight in shining armor, waving a stick like a battle ax and scattering my bullies as if they were just some squawking seagulls.

We became inseparable after that.

When the kids switched to making fun of both of us—the unfortunate combination of our names was just too tasty to resist—I felt so guilty. But June never held it against me.

And so, whenever a kid would swagger up to us, snickering the classroom-wide joke—"Hey, April and June! Where did you leave May?"—June would promptly answer, "Right here," raise a fist, and punch the little fucker's lights out.

I can't count the times that's gotten us into trouble. But we were never alone, and that was all that mattered.

"Where do you want this?" June calls to me from the kitchen island, holding up my Vivienne Westwood catwalk collection book. Third-hand, but worth every penny.

"Brown box," I answer distractedly, dusting a pile of old sewing books. Stitching, pattern techniques—you name it, it's there.

"Roger." In goes Vivienne, then Vuitton. "You're taking those, too?"

I falter. On one hand, I might not be at Matvey's that long. I could keep my treasures where I've always kept them: here, safely in June's care.

On the other hand…

"I think so," I mutter, brushing dust off the covers uncertainly. Ever since my belly grew the size of a basketball, I've neglected them: my other babies.

The books Grandma left me.

Wordlessly, June picks up another box. I keep staring at the covers. Some leatherbound, some not bound at all. Yellowed pages fraying at the edges. Books my grandma collected over the years, in a bunch of different languages, including her native French.

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-god bows . "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 she blushing ? "June Evans. N-Nice to meet you."

" Enchanté. "

What are you, the French mob 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'm speechless. 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.

I try to give him the keys, but he's already gone.

"Relax," June says, picking up the keys from my palm. "I think the Bratva can handle recovering a Honda Civic."

"They're gonna hotwire it, aren't they?"

"You know they're gonna." I slump on the couch, sighing, as June adds, "Besides… that guy looks like he knows what he's doing." I catch her trying to ogle Grisha, who's making a call on the balcony.

"June. June , no. Absolutely not."

"What?" she says defensively. "He ain't bad to look at."

"That's what I said last time I met a Russian mobster!" I point out, flailing my arms. "Look where that got me!"

"It got you this Nugget right here," June coos, making kissy faces at my belly. "Didn't it?"

"Stop that."

"Who's a good Nugget?"

"That's for dogs, June."

She shrugs. Then, in a rare moment of seriousness, she asks, "You know you can come back anytime, right?"

I know why she's saying this. Why she's going through the trouble of spelling it out for me. For the longest time, I didn't have a home to return to. None that actually wanted me, anyway.

"I know," I murmur, feeling myself smile despite everything. It's June's superpower: making me forget that I'm in deep shit by jumping in right after me. "Thanks, Jay. I love you."

"Love you too, Apes."

We hug. It's pathetic—two grown women trying not to break down into ugly sobs.

"Hold on ‘til May," she whispers into my hair. "Promise me."

It's our secret mantra. Since we're April and June, "May" is whenever we're together. It's family—and it's the family we chose. No one else.

"I promise," I croak.

"Good," June says briskly, freeing me from the hug and scrambling for the kitchen. If she's trying to dry her eyes unseen, she's doing a poor job on the "unseen" part.

But fuck it, so am I.

Grisha appears from the balcony. "Everything's ready, Ms. Flowers," he declares. "After you."

I give Buttons one last kiss on the head. Then I give June's hand one last squeeze.

"Tell Baby Daddy Dearest to sleep with one eye open," June warns, a bit to me and a bit, terrifyingly, to Grisha. "If he tries anything, I'll know."

"Please don't tell him that," I murmur to Grisha on our way down.

Grisha gives a hearty chuckle. "I don't think he'd mind, Ms. Flowers. The more people in your corner, the better. Right?"

"Right," I mutter, wondering about those words: in my corner.

Is Matvey in my corner? Or is the baby all he wants from me?

Believe it or not, I'm not a monster. That's what he told me. He meant it—I think. But I don't know if I believe him quite yet.

From the car, I turn to look one last time at the home I'm leaving behind. A temporary change, nothing more.

So why does it feel so damn permanent?

"Please," Grisha says, swiping the keycard to the penthouse and holding the door for me. "Make yourself at home."

"Thank you." I gulp.

I didn't truly get a chance to look around before. I do now, taking in what's going to be my new home for the next few… weeks? Months?

I don't dare think "years . " I'm not sure my heart could take it.

The place is—well, it's a luxury hotel penthouse. That alone sets it apart from any apartment I've ever seen. When I first went house-hunting with June, two eighteen-year-old girls with pennies to our names, the nicest place we could afford was our current one-bedroom in Brooklyn—and even then, it took months (and the adoption of a one-eyed cat) to chase out the rats.

But this place?

The countertops are all marble. The furniture is a sleek, matte black. The couches—plural—are the highest-quality leather I've ever touched. Everything here screams money.

And nothing here screams home.

A knock on the door jolts me out of my thoughts. "Come in," I call, thinking it must be Grisha with a hot towel or a mint chocolate for my pillow or something.

But it isn't Grisha.

"Well, well," a petite blond woman croons from the doorway, "if it isn't Matvey's koshka. I trust you didn't have any trouble finding the place?"

I recognize her immediately. Even with her hair down, her clothes businesslike, there's no mistaking who this person is.

The bride whose wedding I ruined.

From the doorway, two more figures come in. Women, though at first glance you'd never know. Tall, burly, muscled, they look every bit the part of what I suspect they are: bodyguards.

And not of the law-abiding kind.

"It's Petra, right?" I ask, remembering Matvey's words from yesterday. "I'm?—"

"April Flowers," Petra replies sweetly, taking hold of my hand. "My fiancé's tailor. And, well…" She looks down at my belly. "Something else, I'm certain."

I blink. Maybe I'm misinterpreting here, but?—

Did this bitch just call me a bitch?

"Look," I start, not wanting to drag this on any longer, "I'm so sorry about yesterday. I didn't mean for things to happen the way they did, but?—"

"But you just happened to stumble upon our wedding," she completes for me. "And you really couldn't wait any longer to break the news to my husband-to-be. Is that right?"

"That… Actually, yes," I mumble. "That sounds about right."

Petra smiles, all teeth. For a second, I'm reminded of a lioness—the pride's hunter, capable of slaughtering gazelles with a single bite.

And, for some reason, I feel an awful lot like a gazelle.

"Let's get one thing straight, cveto?ek ," Petra coos, sticky-sweet. "I don't know what tragic tale you spun for Matvey?—"

"‘I'm pregnant,'" I deadpan. "You know. You were there."

"—or whose little ubljudok you're carrying in that kangaroo pouch of yours," Petra continues, as if I hadn't spoken.

Should I have taken Russian in high school? I'm starting to think I should've taken Russian.

Not that I need a translator to understand what Petra's trying to say to me. The language of catfights is universal.

"I'm not lying, if that's what you're implying." I don't grit my teeth, nor do I yell—I don't want to give her the satisfaction. But I'm not going to take this lying down, either.

Insult me ? Fine. Maybe I deserved it.

But insult my baby ?

Not on my watch, kalinka .

"Maybe not," Petra concedes. "But the timing sure is interesting."

"I'm not—" I start, but my words are cut short.

Because suddenly, Petra's hand is twisting mine. Her handshake now feels like a vise—tighter, tighter .

I press my lips together, refusing to make a sound. Hurt me all you want. I promise you one thing: I've felt worse.

"All I care about," she enunciates, her face now uncomfortably close to mine, "is my dream. And if you ever get in the way again, I'll make sure your little komuk grows up calling every single nanny ‘Mama.' Have I made myself clear?"

I've never wanted to hit someone this bad. Scratch that—I've never wanted to kill someone this bad.

One day into this nightmare and I'm already homicidal.

"Crystal," I grit out.

Only then does Petra finally let go.

"Splendid!" She claps, as if that settles that. "I'll leave you to unpack, then. Just don't throw out the boxes, ‘mkay?" she winks. "You never know when you might need them again."

With that, she sashays out the door, her bodyguards trailing after her.

As soon as she's gone, I shake out my hand. "Ow," I mutter. "That hurt , bitch."

Alone, I look around the room again. The sealed boxes, the cold countertops, the emptiness. And, not for the first time, I wonder…

Just what the hell did I get myself into?