21. Matvey

21

MATVEY

I've never been so hard in my fucking life.

"Quite a temper, your missus," Grisha comments off-handedly as he starts the car. "Dare I say you've finally found your match?"

I'm thinking the same thing, but I don't let it show. After all, there can be no match . "Drive," I order Grisha instead, nipping this conversation in the bud.

Not that that's ever deterred him before.

"I'm just saying," Grisha insists, turning the key as he continues talking. It's his specialty: obeying spoken orders while defying unspoken ones. "She may have had a point. Perhaps a nice bouquet to smooth things over might be in order?"

"I won't apologize for caring about my child," I snap. "Now, shut up and drive."

Grisha raises his hands in surrender and replies, ever-cheerful, "Yessir."

April . What a fucking woman. No one, not even Petra, has ever had the guts to speak to me that way. Kitten's got claws, alright—and they're razor-fucking-sharp.

I shouldn't find it funny. Hell, I shouldn't find it hot. Being disobeyed like that? Being questioned like that? I've killed people for less.

But April Flowers is something else.

I'll decide who gets to touch my body. The second she said that, I wanted to test her. Wanted to put my hands on her and see how long she could go without begging. Would my baby mama still be so feisty with my fingers dancing between her legs?

I can still remember how it felt: my fingers pumping in and out of her. Her walls, so tight around me. Her voice, breaking with every thrust.

Get a grip. Stop thinking about her.

But it's easier said than done. If I'm not thinking about fucking her, I'm thinking about that goddamn mouth of hers. Even back at the shop, when we first met, she didn't take anything lying down. She was perfectly polite, perfectly courteous—and perfectly infuriating. I don't remember ever being insulted to my face with a smile that bright.

I shouldn't be so forgiving. I should storm back in there and make it clear which one of us sets the rules.

But I've always liked a woman who could hold her own. Someone with character. When your name's Matvey Groza, you get swarmed with brain dead socialites looking for a rich daddy to replace their rich daddy—one with benefits beyond a thick wallet. To get that, they'll turn into anything they think you want: chirpy little birds, clucking hens, temptress harpies. Anything at all.

It takes a real woman to know exactly who she is.

And exactly what she wants , a treacherous part of me whispers.

By the time the car stops by the warehouse, I've gathered myself. It takes more than a pretty face—or a stunning body—to make me lose my cool.

"Status update," I command the second I walk in.

Yuri rushes to meet me. "Here's the autopsy report," he says, handing me a file. "Our usual coroner."

The one we pay off to keep everything to himself , I note mentally. Good. We wouldn't want to get any extra players involved—especially not the boys in blue. "Give me the bullet points."

"Quite literally," Grisha comments from my side, leaning over the pictures in the report. Four men, two of them ours, all shot dead.

Yuri makes a sour face at Grisha's joke. But clearly, our earlier conversation must have made an impression, because for once, he doesn't start anything. "Estimated time of death between 4:00 and 5:00 PM. For the hostages: single shot to the head, point blank."

"No surprises there," Grisha mutters, pointing at the burn mark around the entry wound in both pictures.

"For our men," Yuri resumes, as if he hasn't heard him, "we're looking at a shot through the heart."

"‘ And you're to blame…' " Grisha hums to the music in his head.

"Excuse me?" Yuri bristles.

"Grisha, no singing," I cut in before another fight—and another headache—can materialize out of this. "Yuri, no taking Bon Jovi lyrics personally. Continue."

"But—"

" Continue. "

Yuri's frown deepens, but he obeys. "Both our men were shot in the back, from a distance of approximately thirty feet, at a forty-five degree downward angle."

"That's strange," I mutter. "Our men would have had their backs to the door they were guarding, facing the front door."

"And the distance between the cells and the entrance can't be more than fifteen, twenty feet," Grisha finishes for me.

"Exactly," I agree. Then, turning to Yuri: "What did we find at the scene?"

"Not much," Yuri admits. "Aside from gunpowder residue on the kidnappers' clothes?—"

"Which would be inevitable," Grisha says. "Being shot point blank and all."

"—and what's written in this report," Yuri continues, grinding his teeth audibly at the interruption, "we found nothing. No bullets. Just two extra sets of footprints from the cells to the back door. Oh, and a coin."

"Footprints?" Grisha inquires. "What kind?"

"Size twelve," Yuri explains. "Standard issue combat boots. Can be bought anywhere."

"And the coin?"

Both of my subordinates turn to look at me.

"The coin?" Grisha blinks.

"Yes," I reply, impatient. "The coin."

Yuri quickly flips through his notebook. "It was a common quarter. Nothing special, no prints. Likely belonged to one of our men."

"Where was it found?"

Yuri doesn't seem to understand my line of questioning, but he answers promptly anyway. "About halfway between the two cell doors."

"There's a game our men play when they're bored," Grisha adds. "Sometimes, if they're standing guard on opposite doors, they'll toss a coin back and forth between them to pass the time." Like a stage magician, he produces a quarter from his pocket to demonstrate, throwing it at Yuri and nearly hitting him in the eye. My brother catches it at the last second, fuming.

" My men don't waste time on stupid games like these," Yuri hisses at Grisha.

"Have you ever seen an employee play around while the manager's clocked in?" Grisha replies evenly. "They wouldn't do it in front of you, Yurochka. Especially not with that feisty little temper of yours."

"Listen, you fu?—"

I tune out their argument. Instead, I walk to the center of the warehouse. With slow, deliberate steps, I look around me.

Twenty feet to the front door. Twenty more to the back door. No nooks to hide in at the corners, no holes in the walls to shoot through. Only ? —

"You two. Come here."

Silence returns.

Trading suspicious looks, Yuri and Grisha make their way over to me. "Did you find anything?" Yuri asks.

Find? No.

Find out, though? "Yuri, give me the coin."

Yuri blinks, but does as he's told. He tosses it lightly and I catch it midair, feeling the cold metal between my fingers. "Go stand at the doors."

Still exchanging glances, the two obey.

Grisha settles in front of Room A. Yuri takes Room B. "What now?"

"Now," I say, feeling a grin tug at the corners of my lips, "pretend you can't see me."

I toss the coin.

While it spins in the air, I take a few steps back. Yuri and Grisha stare at the coin until it lands, the clink of metal against concrete ringing out in the empty warehouse.

Nothing happens.

I run a hand through my hair, sighing. "You're still seeing me," I chide. " Don't see me. Yuri, pass me the coin again."

Yuri walks to the center, picks it up, and tosses it back at me.

I take back my spot between them. "You're the guards. You're alone. You're facing the door."

The two turn around, their backs to me, and I place the coin on my thumb.

Three, two, one…

The coin flies. I retreat.

Clink.

Grisha turns. So does Yuri.

"Both of you," I call from my position, "go pick it up."

Yuri moves first. He rushes to the center of the room and kneels. Soon enough, Grisha catches up with leisurely steps, crouching down slightly.

Bingo. "Stop."

They freeze. I walk around them—one first, then the other. I settle behind Yuri.

Then I pull out my gun and touch it to his back.

"Motya…?" Yuri calls, distraught.

"Trust me," I say. "The game's almost over."

Through the barrel of my gun, I can feel Yuri swallow.

"Now, look up," I order. "Both of you."

They obey.

Above us, the skylight illuminates the warehouse in six wide squares, their reflection on the ground broken only by a line of beams.

I can see the moment realization dawns on them. "The roof."

"Thirty feet exactly," I confirm. "Now, Yuri. What would it look like if I shot you right now?"

Yuri's transfixed, staring at me with eyes wide in admiration. And, understandably, a primal fear. "A forty-five degree angle."

I grin. "Precisely."

I put my gun away. Yuri breathes a sigh of relief, the picture finally clear. "They came from above. From the skylights."

"That's why the footprints went from the cell doors to the back door," Grisha adds. "One-way. Nothing near the entrance."

I nod, pleased with the results of this little experiment. "The coin was a distraction. Tossed from above, it caught the attention of our men. But they didn't see it drop—they only heard it. So they turned, walked up to it to examine it…"

"And crouched," Yuri completes for me, in awe.

"And crouched."

"Then the intruders went to kill our guests," Grisha continues. "They fished out the bullets from the bodies. They left through the emergency door in the back. It's the perfect locked-room mystery."

"Not perfect," I point out, tossing the coin back to Grisha. "And they didn't get all the bullets."

I pull a small plastic bag from my pocket. Yuri's eyes widen to the size of melons, while Grisha walks up with a curious glint in his. "Where did you find this?"

"Room B," I tell him. "Last night."

"Why didn't you say anything?" Yuri asks, a trace of hurt in his voice.

I pat him on the shoulder. "We still don't know the Russian's identity. Until we do, we keep the clues to ourselves. Our men are on a need-to-know basis. Got it?"

They both nod. Good. I can't afford anything less than complete obedience on this. I'm about to hand the bullet to Yuri for testing when, unexpectedly, April pops back into my thoughts.

April . Her fierce determination the day of the wedding, handcuffed and still showing up in front of me, demanding my protection. Her fire today, ready to raze cities to the ground.

Perhaps a nice bouquet to smooth things over?

I'm not one for apologies. I don't owe anyone shit. If people are displeased with me, so be it. It's none of my concern, and I certainly won't lose sleep over it. If I had to send flowers to every person I've ever offended, every garden on the planet would be a wasteland by now.

And yet. And yet, part of me wants to do something. Not to grovel—God fucking forbid—but to…

Reward her , a part of me whispers.

It doesn't make sense. Disobedience shouldn't be rewarded; it should be punished.

But how will you punish her? that part goads. You know exactly what you want to do to her. So why don't you?

I grit my teeth and change trajectory at the last moment. "Grisha, you test this."

Grisha nods. "Right away."

Yuri notices my split-second decision. "Why not me?" he asks predictably, like a child being denied candy.

I sigh and ruffle his hair. "Oh, Yura. I couldn't possibly waste your time like that. After all, I've got a special mission for you today."

Yuri stares at me. He stares for a very long time, and very, very hard. Then he shudders. "I'm not gonna like this, am I?" he mutters, too cornered to fight back.

My face splits into a grin. "That depends. How do you feel about shopping?"