12. April

12

APRIL

I'm almost done hanging my clothes when the doorbell rings.

I rush to the door, trying to fix the mess on my head in the process. After hours spent ducked between bookshelves and riffling through a closet bigger than my entire apartment, it's safe to say I don't look my best.

Or so I assume. I haven't had a chance to look in the mirror yet.

It's so weird—answering the door here. Like this place belongs to me. Even if this temporary arrangement gives me full run of the joint, I can't help feeling like a guest. An intruder.

I crack open the chained door, once again expecting Grisha…

And it's not.

Instead, it's him.

"Oh," I blurt out stupidly. "Hi."

Matvey inclines his head. "April," he greets back flatly.

Every time I see this man, he's looking his best self. Composed, put-together, all smooth fabrics and artful scruff and expensive cologne. By contrast, I feel like I just crawled out of a hole.

An ass hole, to be specific.

"Gonna let me in at some point?" Matvey asks, that pinprick of impatience clear in his voice.

"I—Yes. Of course. Just a second…"

I unlock the chain at the door. It takes me an embarrassing amount of tries—damned butterfingers. But in the end, I manage, and the sight that greets me is…

Unexpected.

Because there Matvey is, tapping his foot with mounting irritation, towering over me in all his mob bossy glory?—

—and pushing a food cart.

I step aside to let him through. If he taps his foot any harder, I'm afraid there might be victims. "Come on in."

Matvey rolls the cart forward. Somehow, he manages to do even that in an intimidating way. I'm suddenly feeling sorry for his secretaries.

"What, uh…?" I babble, racking my brain for a conversation topic. Anything to dispel this awkward silence, really. "What brings you by?"

I cringe. I sound like the corny neighbor on an 80s sitcom that didn't get renewed for a second season.

"Do I need a reason to come to my own penthouse?" Matvey ponders without looking up from the trays he's setting on the table.

I want to smack myself. At the same time, I want to smack him. Who even has that kind of attitude?

I'm debating whether to give him a piece of my mind when?—

"Evening, boss," Grisha calls from the doorway. "I trust everything's up to standard?"

Aaand they're speaking in code again.

"Everything's fine," Matvey says, which tells me absolutely nothing. I'd try reading his expression, but I'd have more luck with the Easter Island statues. "You can go, Grisha. I'll take it from here."

Grisha gives a small bow. "I'll be on standby downstairs. Ms. Flowers," he adds courteously, taking his leave from me as well.

I feel my hands twitch as the door closes behind his back. Don't go! I want to whine like a goddamn toddler. Don't leave me alone with the scary hot man!

Despite myself, I was starting to feel at ease around Grisha. At the very least, he was someone I could read. Calm, approachable, always with a joke on his lips.

But Matvey?

He remains a mystery wrapped in Tom Ford.

"Should I bring you a chair over there?" Matvey asks sarcastically.

I shake myself back to reality. In my stupor, I completely forgot about the covered trays he just carted in. He uncovers one now, and the smell is…

Well, the smell is heavenly.

My belly gives a loud rumble. I pray he didn't hear it, but as soon as I look up, I can see the ghost of a smirk playing on his irritatingly handsome face.

Oh, whatever. I'm pregnant. I get to be twice as hungry as everyone else.

I slide into the seat in front of him. "Thank you," I murmur, staring at the feast in front of me.

"Here," Matvey says in a clipped tone, handing me a single-sheet menu. "I instructed the chef to avoid anything unsafe for pregnancy, as well as mustard and celery. But you should check just in case."

I accept the menu with unsteady hands, my mind reeling. It must have taken a lot of work to do something like this. Above all else, that's what strikes me first: a tremendous amount of care.

My second thought is that I never told him about my allergies.

Deep breaths, April. So the scary mobster's got his hands on your medical records. So what? He isn't using them to kill you.

… yet.

"Thank you," I say uncertainly, still not sure if I'm about to suffer death by Dijon.

Then we eat.

According to the menu, the dish that made me dizzy with its heavenly scent is something called tomato consommé with smoked ricotta tortelli. The taste is delicate and delicious, unlike anything I've ever eaten. Is this what it feels like to be rich?

"Is the food to your liking?" Matvey asks in his deep, rumbling voice.

Is rain wet and the Earth round? "It's amazing," I answer sincerely. "My go-to dinner is usually boxed mac-and-cheese, so this is definitely new."

Matvey looks at me with pity. "You… cook, then?"

"Store-bought," I clarify.

He cringes.

For some reason, that's ridiculously funny to me: Matvey Groza, scandalized by the eating habits of the common folk. Without realizing it, I let out a laugh. "I know, I know. Not exactly worthy of a Michelin star, am I?"

Matvey shrugs. "Everyone's got their talents. You're a decent tailor, at least."

"Just ‘decent'?"

"Your professionalism leaves something to be desired."

"Hey!" The nerve of this guy! "It's not like I'm used to customers wanting to tie me up," I mumble, feeling the urge to sink into the floor.

"I find that very hard to believe."

Forget the floor. I'd like to sink into the core of the Earth, pretty please.

The second course—because this meal has actual courses , apparently, as opposed to me just refilling my bowl with some more cheesy Kraft goodness—is duck confit. I eye the side of crispy potatoes and cauliflower gratin, and my mouth starts watering.

"So," I say, trying to at least pretend this fancy food hasn't hypnotized me completely, "what's your talent, then?"

Matvey takes a sip of his wine. I'm almost jealous—that must go spectacularly with the meat. "I'm a man of many talents, April."

"First of all, vomit. Secondly, that's cheating. Answer the question."

The corner of his lip twitches. Wait, am I making the ice man laugh? Someone give me a Nobel Prize. "Should I just pick one, then?"

"Yes. And being good at mafia-whatever doesn't count."

"Bratva," Matvey corrects. "And if that doesn't count, then…"

He looks at me intensely. I can feel heat rising to my cheeks. Then his gaze moves to my belly, and my face catches fire . He's not implying what I think he is, right? He's not saying his talent is?—

"I guess I consider myself a family man."

Thank God.

"Is that so?" I mumble around a forkful of duck. If stuffing my face ungracefully is what it takes to keep my stupid mouth from voicing my embarrassing thoughts, then so be it. I'll make the sacrifice.

"Mm," he hums in response. "‘ Bratva' means ‘brotherhood.' It's not a family, not by any means—but it's the closest thing you can get without blood in the mix."

"So like a found family?" I perk up. Finally, a topic I can relate to.

"There's no such thing."

My enthusiasm shatters. "Pardon?"

Matvey sets down his fork and knife. "There's no such thing as family without blood ties," he repeats darkly, staring at me with those stormy eyes of his. "The concept alone is ridiculous."

Whatever warmth I'd felt instantly plummets. "Is that so?" I squeak.

"Of course," Matvey asserts. "Family means trust. And you can't trust anyone who isn't blood. You'd be a fool to ever try."

I think of June, holding back tears in our apartment. Of Elias, who's been more of a father to me than my own ever was.

Of…

"What about Petra?" I ask, not a trace of warmth left in my voice.

Matvey sneers. "Petra's an ally. She'll never be family."

"You were supposed to get married."

"A mutually beneficial arrangement," he concedes. "Nothing more."

" Nothing ?" I press in disbelief. This whole tirade—it's just about the saddest thing I've ever heard. Trusting no one? Treating your friends like pieces on a chessboard? What stone-cold way to live is that?

It must show on my face, because a mocking smirk suddenly blooms on Matvey's lips. "Nothing worth mentioning, anyway."

I fist my dress. So it wasn't all business after all.

I force myself to take a breath. There's no reason to get worked up over this , I tell myself sternly. Either Matvey's messing with me—in which case, I won't give him the satisfaction of taking the bait—or his "arrangement" with Petra is slightly more than what Yuri made it out to be.

And if it is, so what? What's it to me if Matvey Groza's having fun with his bride-to-be?

"I see," I answer coldly.

Honestly, it makes sense. It was silly of me to think he'd leave a woman like Petra untouched in the first place. He didn't hold back with plain old me; why should he have held back with someone who so clearly belongs on the cover of Vogue ?

I get that.

I do, truly.

What I don't get is why this bothers me so goddamn much.

"I hear you two met," Matvey mentions casually. Like he's talking about the weather or something. "I trust she behaved."

I could tell him my hand still hurts. That I've actually had to ice it after that harpy was done with it.

Instead, I tuck it in. I may be new to this Bratva thing, but I know how the mob feels about snitches. And say what you want about me, but I've never been a snitch.

"Charming," I reply with my fakest smile.

"Good. I've already made myself very clear with her anyway."

"What about?"

Matvey's eyes pry into me from the other side of the table. Once again, I feel incredibly small. A rabbit in the clutches of a wolf. "You're carrying my child, April. My blood . And as long as that's true, no one will be allowed to hurt you."

It would almost be romantic. It would almost make me feel warm again. Instead, all I can think of is that teensy little disclaimer in the middle of his promise: As long as that's true.

"And after?"

Matvey remains unfazed. "After," he answers, clearing away our plates, "you'll be the mother."

He makes it sound so simple. So easy . None of this is easy to me, though.

"And what does that mean to you?" I force myself to ask. If I have to spend my time here wondering whether Matvey Groza's gonna get rid of me once I've served my purpose, I'm going to drive myself crazy.

"Everything."

I blink. Matvey's standing now, looking for all intents and purposes like a predator ready to jump.

But he doesn't. He just walks to the fridge and plucks two small trays. Then he continues, "Blood is everything to me, April. That's why I'm here tonight—why I'm planning to be here every night. I want my child to grow up with a family." He pauses to place the trays on the table. "And that starts with this."

"Dinner?" I blurt out.

" Family dinner."

He sits back down. For a moment, I retreat inside my thoughts. "That's a tradition of yours, I take it?"

"The opposite," Matvey clarifies. "I never had the chance."

That takes me by surprise. I can't understand this man at all—his motives, his reasoning. And yet, I can understand this: wanting to be different from the people who raised you.

Maybe, in a way, we're alike after all.

"So I'll expect you to be there, too," he says then, jolting me out of my thoughts. "Every night. Before the baby's born, and after."

It sounds like a line straight out of Beauty and the Beast. That doesn't reassure me one bit. Belle might have gotten her happily ever after, but I seem to remember the Beast being a controlling asshole for roughly half the movie. And I doubt Matvey's got a magic rose stashed in his holster.

I end up picking at my dessert: a slice of black forest cake that should make my mouth water. But, for some reason, I'm not that hungry anymore. Leave it to Matvey Groza to make a pregnant woman lose her appetite.

But that's just it. I'm pregnant. I can't afford to make a scene or lose my head. So I swallow my anger and choose strategy.

"So that's it?" I ask finally. "Stepping up for the child—that's what you're doing?"

"That's what any parent should do," Matvey answers without missing a beat. "Anything less is a blood betrayal."

There he goes again— blood . "And I'm the child's blood."

"You are."

"But I'm not yours."

A beat. "You are not," he confirms eventually.

I decide I've just about had enough. "That's cool and all," I say, pushing away my plate, "but I've got conditions, too."

He arches an eyebrow. "‘Conditions'?"

"Yes," I declare, "conditions. You want family dinner every night? That's fine by me. But I want something in return."

Something flashes over Matvey's face. I can't tell what it is—irritation, stupor—because, just as quickly, it's gone.

"Very well," he says, steepling his fingers, his expression carefully neutral. "What is it you want, then, Ms. Flowers?"

What do you want, kalina ?

I shake off the memory. "First, I want to see my friends."

"I think that's unnecessary."

"Well, think again," I press. "‘Cause you may not believe in found family, but that's the only kind I've got. Frankly, if I had to rely on blood, I'd have been dead ten times over." I don't bother to sugarcoat it. Matvey Groza's got his opinions—I've got mine. "So I get to see them."

For a moment, Matvey's silent. I'm wondering if I didn't push too hard—if this isn't the moment I discover just how unpleasant this man can make it for me here—when, to my surprise, he nods. "Fair enough. Supervised visits, in the lobby. Planned in advance."

Just like prison. Joy.

"Alright."

"And everyone gets vetted."

Is that Bratva code for ‘stalked and interrogated'? I decide not to press. I don't think June will mind if the mob unearths her parking tickets. "Okay. Second, I get to keep working."

"Absolutely not," Matvey growls.

I hold up a hand. "I don't need to go to the shop," I tell him. "I can work from here. But I'll need Elias to bring work to me."

He pauses. "That's your boss from the shop?"

"That's him. I believe he did your final fitting for you."

I can see his teeth gritting. He isn't liking this one bit, is he? "Fine. But only part-time."

"Part-time's good," I agree. "One last thing, then."

Forget seeing: I can hear his teeth gritting this time. "What else could you possibly want?" Matvey all but snarls.

"You."

For the first time in the whole evening, I'm treated to the sight of a speechless Matvey Groza. "Come again?"

"I'll be here twenty-four-seven," I state, matter-of-factly. "Endlessly available to you." I push my phone across the table. "So I'll expect you to be available to me, too."

He stares at my phone. Then, suddenly, he grins. "If you wanted my number, Ms. Flowers, all you had to do was ask."

Don't slap the father of your child, April. He's stronger than you and he's got guns.

Then Matvey plucks something from his pocket and slides it across in return. I take it.

"A burner phone?" I blink.

Matvey nods, that shit-eating grin still firmly planted on his face. "I wasn't going to leave you without a way to reach me, April. Though I did enjoy how forward you were just now."

Don't hit the mobster, April. Do not? —

He rises before I do something regrettable. I do the same. It seems that family dinner's come to an end.

And not a moment too soon.

"Well then," he says, taking my hand. "I'll see you tomorrow night."

Then, out of the blue, he kisses it.

I can't move. I can't think. I can't breathe. My face turns into a hot plate. You could cook an egg on it: that's how searing it feels.

"Goodnight," Matvey croons, still grinning like a wolf.

I force myself to inhale. "Goodnight," I echo in a whisper, trying not to sway from how lightheaded I'm feeling.

Then he's out.

As soon as I hear his steps fading in the corridor, I slump against the door, cradling my face in my hands. My hands . One of which he kissed .

What the hell, I wonder helplessly for the second time today, have I gotten myself into?