19. Matvey

19

MATVEY

Ring-ring-ring.

I groan into my pillow. It's the second time today that someone's trying to commit suicide by my gun. You don't fuck with a man's sleep—you just don't.

I pick up my phone like it's committed a capital offense, not even glancing at the name on the display. So much for my afternoon doze.

" What ." It is not really a question.

Yuri's voice answers, more solemn than I've ever heard it before. "Motya…"

I immediately sit up, on high alert. Yuri's tone, the tremor in that single word—it's all wrong. "Tell me what happened."

My first thought is April. Cold dread snakes up my spine: did someone break into the penthouse? Did they find her?

Did they hurt her ?

"You'd better come to the warehouse," is all he says. "We have a situation."

"Yura," I growl into the speaker, "tell me what happened."

A beat goes by. Two. Three.

"It's the kidnappers," Yuri exhales finally. "They're…"

Free , a part of me fears he's about to say. Free to harm her again. Free to take her from me.

But that's not what Yuri says.

It's worse.

"They're dead, Matvey."

In fifteen minutes, I'm at the warehouse. I storm in like a tornado. "How the fuck did this happen?"

Yuri hangs his head. "It's my fault. I left to get something to eat, and when I came back…"

"You left them alone?!" I roar. Right now, all I see is red.

"No!" Yuri answers quickly. "No, our men were here, but…"

It's only then that my tunnel vision finally clears. The two bodies by the cell doors—I'd thought they belonged to the kidnappers at first, but the clothing's all wrong. They're wearing suits, black and sleek, untainted but for the bloodstain spreading from their backs.

Their backs. My men were shot from goddamn behind.

Whatever mudak did this has no honor.

I shake my head. I may be furious, but I'm not so far gone that I can't see what's right in front of me. "It's not your fault," I sigh, turning to Yuri. "If you'd been here, they would have gotten you, too."

The thought alone sends chills down my back. Losing my only brother to the same bastards targeting my child?

Not a chance in fucking hell.

Yuri swallows, nodding meekly. The guilt on his face is plain as day, but I can't worry about that right now. I already absolved him—if he knows what's good for him, he'll take it.

I'm not the kind of man to forgive twice.

I stride into the cells. Room A first, then B. The Russian's lying sideways on the ground, still tied to the chair, a bullet hole weeping blood on his forehead. His face is twisted into a horrified expression. Whatever he saw before he died, those last moments must have been a living nightmare.

Good , the vengeful part of me whispers. At least you suffered.

The other guy's face is equally disturbing, but for the opposite reason. I kneel in front of the chair, still upright, and tilt up his chin. Same bullet hole, same place, but with one key difference.

He's smiling.

I kick the chair over in a fit of rage. Yuri rushes to see what's going on, but I barely hear him. I flip the tool cart, sending scalpels and pliers flying through the air. " Blyat '!"

This was our only lead. Without the interrogation, we will never find out for certain who our enemies are. I may have my suspicions on the foreigner, but the Russian's still a big, fat mystery.

And now, we'll have to start over.

"Who knew?" I snarl to Yuri.

I don't have to elaborate—Yuri understands immediately. "Our four men on rotation."

And now, two are dead. "Who else?"

"Me and you."

"Who else ?"

Yuri's lips press into a grim line. "You know who."

I twist around. "That's nonsense and you know it."

"Is it?" Yuri growls. "Because whenever that errand boy's involved, there's trouble."

"I hardly think Grisha qualifies as an ‘errand boy.' He's twice your age."

"That doesn't mean?—"

"Yura." My imperious tone stuns him into silence. "He hasn't left the hotel in days. It couldn't have been him." I stride out of the cell, all the way to the warehouse door, my brother close on my heel. "I don't care if you can't see eye to eye. Either put your differences aside or hand in your guns, because I do not need squabbling schoolgirls in my ranks; I need men . Have I made myself clear?"

Yuri's teeth draw blood on his bottom lip. But he finally stops arguing, and that's the only thing I care about right now. I need my ranks in order. "Yes, moy pakhan ."

"Good. Now, call him." I fix my sleeves and wipe the blood off my soles. "You'll handle the clean-up— together . Dispose of the bodies and the blood, but do not touch anything else until I return. Got it?"

Yuri blinks. "Where are you going?"

I glance at my watch. "It's late. I need to be at the hotel by seven."

"You can't leave!" Yuri objects, walking a full circle around me. Like a riotous goddamn Pomeranian. "We need you here."

"It's family dinner, Yuri."

"But this is an emergency!"

"I don't give a shit." I whirl around. "Everything is an emergency in our line of work—or have you forgotten that? I can't start putting this shit above family. Especially when my child hasn't even been born yet." I grit my teeth, forcing myself to calm down. "I won't be like him , Yuri. I can't."

At the mention of our father, Yuri finally seems to understand. "Alright. Don't worry. We'll handle things here."

I nod grimly. "Question the other men on rotation, too—but be subtle. If there's a rat, we don't want to scare it away just yet."

Yuri straightens up. "Understood."

And with that, I finally stride out.

By the time I reach the hotel, I'm in an even fouler mood.

April seems to catch on to that. She greets me, shows me in, takes the trays off my hands to set the table. All the while, she doesn't speak a word out of place.

I wish Yuri was that smart.

Conversation, to the extent that it exists at all, is stilted even more than usual. Seeing April on edge like this—it makes me feel like shit. Like I'm him already.

I still can't force a word past my lips.

After this sad affair dies a merciful death, I head right to the door, expecting that April can't wait to be rid of me. But instead, she turns to me with a tentative smile. "Wanna get a drink?"

With a sigh, I nod.

We step out on the balcony. The city lights spread out like a carpet in front of us, twinkling and shimmering from here to the horizon. You don't really get to see the stars in Manhattan; this is the next best thing. It's why I chose this place.

If you can't see the stars, you should count yourself among them.

April offers me a glass. I take a whiff: bourbon.

"Found it in the cabinet," she explains. "Thought it looked like something you'd drink. Neat, right?"

Speechless, I nod. I never told April my drink of choice, and yet, here she is—offering it up like she's known all her life.

I watch her sip a tall, pink monstrosity. "Mocktail," she explains, catching my gaze. "Don't worry—I know Nugget's not old enough to drink."

I frown even harder. "Nugget?"

April points at her belly. "Can't pick a name until I know if it's a boy or a girl. So, until then…" she shrugs. "It was either that or Cheese Bite."

"Your fondness for fast food concerns me."

"Take it up with management," April chuckles. "It was only mac and cheese for me until this little one came along. Now, I'm craving KFC every other minute."

"Probably trying to make you eat healthier," I mutter.

"Hey!" April protests, but there's a smile playing on her lips. "Cheese isn't that bad for you."

"I'll introduce you to a nutritionist one day."

She pouts. "Killjoy."

Then she leans on the railing with her elbows, looking down at the rest of the world.

In this light, her dark dress is almost invisible. Like she's a part of the night itself, and the only thing covering her are shadows. Is it odd that I'm jealous of them—that they get to touch her and I don't?

I try to tear my gaze away from her body, heavy with the evidence of what we did; from her eyes, filled with artificial stars and happiness. Warmth.

I fail miserably.

"Did something happen today?"

I snap back to the present. April spoke, but she isn't looking at me: her gaze is still fixed on Manhattan.

Part of me wants to tell her. That's the most terrifying realization of all: I want to tell her . This woman, this stranger , is prying me open without even trying. A bloodless, effortless interrogation.

But I steel myself. I'm not this weak. If feminine wiles were all it took to crack me, Petra would have the keys to the fucking kingdom by now.

"Nothing unusual."

And then there's the other reason.

April glances at me then, still a bit fearful. Like she's expecting me to blow up at her for simply breathing in the same space as me. It makes me furious—that someone taught her this. That she was raised like this. If I had any less restraint, I'd have gone knocking at her parents' doors and demanded answers by now.

"Nothing?"

This is the other reason—the worry in her eyes. She thinks something's got me in a mood, and that alone is enough to put a look like that on her face. Why the fuck would I tell her that we lost our only lead?

It would be bad for her. Most of all, it would be bad for the baby.

That's what I tell myself over and over. This is all for the baby. Not for her.

To me, April Flowers means…

"Nothing," I confirm, and down the last of my drink.

At the door, I take her hand in mine for my customary goodnight, but she quickly slips it out.

"I almost forgot!" she says, rushing over to a corner of the room. A corner brimming with utter chaos, but I've been trying not to think about it. That's for housekeeping to deal with.

When April rushes back to me, there's a small bundle in her hands. "Come closer."

I do. Despite all my intentions, all my instincts, I do exactly as she says.

She frowns in concentration, then rises up on her tiptoes. For a second, I wonder if she's trying to chloroform me. That, or kiss me.

I can't say which one would be worse right now.

But she doesn't do either of those things. Instead, she goes for my breast pocket and carefully stuffs the bundle inside it.

That's when I finally realize what it is.

"It's lucky you're wearing this jacket tonight," she chirps, clearly pleased with herself. "Now, I get to see how it looks."

The color is a deep, vivid indigo. I glance at the rest of my outfit, and it doesn't take long to realize that it fits the ensemble perfectly. The hue, the size—it's all flawless.

"I know you don't think of outsiders as family," April mumbles, wringing her hands. Her voice is barely a whisper. "But we're going to share one. So, if you can't think of me as family…" A tentative smile. "At least let's not be strangers. Okay?"

I'm stunned. For a while, all I can do is stare.

Then I shake myself back to the present and take her hand again. I kiss it. The warmth is overpowering—nearly enough to break me.

But I won't break.

After all, not strangers is still a far cry from family.

"Goodnight, April."

"Goodnight, Matvey."

I drive back to the warehouse.

Once I'm there, I give one simple command: "Out."

Everyone obeys.

I search every nook and cranny of the two interrogation rooms. I search like a man possessed. If there's even a clue that can lead me to whoever wants to harm April— whoever wants to harm my child , I correct myself mentally—if there's even a trace of a hint of a scrap of a clue, I will find it.

And I do. It's nearly dawn when a little piece of metal blinks at me from the wall behind the Russian. In the corner, pressed into a crack in the concrete…

A bullet.

I grin like a wolf. "Game on," I snarl out loud, hoping the piece of shit who fired it can hear me, wherever he may be.

I got you, motherfucker.