22. April

22

APRIL

When the knocking comes back with a vengeance in the afternoon, I nearly choose violence. In fact, I'm this close to picking up a broom and brandishing it like a katana against whoever's come looking for trouble.

In the end, I don't. Not only because I can't find it, but also because the only people who could reach me here are either Matvey's men or his enemies, and I have a feeling they all come equipped with guns. So, no taking brooms to a gunfight.

"I swear, if someone else's come to feel me up today?—"

The words die in my throat.

The first thing I see is toys. A mountain of toys. Plushies, rattles, building blocks—everything that would make a child's eyes go wide and shiny while making grabby hands. My eyes aren't any less wide, but it's not exactly wonder.

The second thing I see is Yuri.

His head is poking from a million bags and boxes, barely visible. With his face scrunched up like that, I almost take him for a Furby. "Let me in," he groans, going for commanding and falling way short of the mark. "Please."

I take pity. He looks like he's about to be crushed under the weight of impulse shopping. Yuri stumbles in, toys falling off his shoulders in an avalanche. Luckily, everything's boxed up pretty thoroughly and made entirely of synthetic fibers and/or plastic, which means there are no victims. Other than the environment and Matvey's wallet, that is.

"Did Matvey ask you to rob a toy store?" I ask, closing the door behind him.

Leaning against the back of the couch—and still very much wheezing like he's on his asthmatic death bed—Yuri shakes his head. "You don't do robberies while the sun's up. That's basic common sense."

"Is it?" I blink innocently. "I'm not that familiar with the activity, so I wouldn't know."

I crouch to examine the boxes more closely. There really is everything in here—and yup , that's a Furby. I discreetly push that particular box under the couch while Yuri's busy busting a lung.

Taking pity on him, I shuffle to the kitchen and pour him a tall glass of water. "So," I start, watching him drain it all in one go, "toys."

"Toys," Yuri confirms. He licks every single droplet off the glass. "Kids need ‘em."

"They sure do," I agree vaguely. "And I mean, who wants a baby shower? They're a nightmare anyway. So, thanks, I guess."

"Thank Matvey," Yuri corrects. "They're from him."

"Wait." I frown. "Is this your brother's way of saying he's sorry ?"

I glance at the amount of bags once more. This whole scene does have a "grand gesture" feel to it. A "sorry I was a colossal dick" kind of vibe. Am I dreaming? Is Hugh Grant going to pop up around the corner?

"No," Yuri answers promptly—and, if I'm not mistaken, a bit proudly, too. "Matvey doesn't do apologies."

"Doesn't he, though?" I tilt my head towards Toy Mountain. "‘Cause with gifts like these, it's either that or overcompensation."

Not that Matvey has anything below the belt to compensate for, but I'm not gonna say that out loud . Certainly not to his irritating brother, who would use his dying breath to make a joke about it.

Predictably, Yuri grits his teeth. "Matvey does not apologize."

"Fine."

"… But he does occasionally admit when he's wrong."

I bite back a snort. "Does he now?"

Yuri doesn't reply. I keep snickering under my breath. I'm still mad, but how can I stay serious? God, being a macho man must be exhausting. The posturing alone would make me throw out my back.

I shake my head and smile. Then I let my gaze swoop over the toys: beautiful, shiny, new. Every kid's dream.

I never got to have something like this. Until a week ago, I thought Nugget wouldn't, either. We'd be too busy trying to make ends meet.

But Matvey's changed that. And, asshole or not, I can't help but be grateful.

"Well then," I call over to Yuri, scooping up a model train that no kid under eight should ever touch according to its box, "what are you standing there for?"

Yuri blinks like I've spoken in Klingon. "What?"

I gesture towards the toys. "These aren't gonna put themselves away. You wouldn't make a pregnant woman carry all this, would you?"

I can see his throat bobbing up and down, like he's weighing his options. Option A: make up a cat on the stove and bail, but risk Matvey's wrath afterwards. Option B: sacrifice.

"Fine," he gives up eventually. "But I'm not touching those . "

I follow his gaze.

From the floor, three more Furbies stare back ominously.

"So," I pipe up after a while, "you and Matvey. What's the story there?"

Yuri cocks his head at me like an offended bird. "Why would there be a story?"

"There's always a story." We've nearly run out of places to stash these toys—which, considering how huge Matvey's penthouse is, is saying something—so I stuff a couple more in the guest wardrobe and shut it before the precarious tower of boxes can fall on me. I almost don't make it out alive. "I have four half-siblings and a story for each one."

Though none with a happy ending , I don't say out loud.

Yuri kicks a fish catching game under the guest bed. I can see the gears turning in his head, calculating just how much he's willing—or able—to share. Finally, he mutters, "It's not much of a story."

"I've been cooped up in here for a week. I'll take a boring story over the sound of the neighbor's garbage disposal."

Yuri snorts. "Suit yourself." He tosses a few more boxes on top of the wardrobe—which he can actually reach, unlike me—and stares at the ceiling for a while, collecting his thoughts. Finally, he says, "We're half-brothers, too."

I don't speak. For some reason, it just doesn't feel like my turn to talk.

After a beat, Yuri continues. "I didn't know I had a brother. For the longest time, it was just me and my mom. Then she got sick."

I feel a pang of sympathy. I don't know if it's the pregnancy that's making me slip into Mom Mode, but I can't help it: I feel for him. It's not like Yuri's a kid—at most, he's a couple of years younger than me—but he still feels too young.

Too young to lose so much.

Too young to grieve so much.

Too young to be so Bratva.

"I was seven," Yuri murmurs. "I was out collecting firewood. It was snowing. Had been for a week. I thought it'd never stop." Another beat. "Then I saw him."

I try to picture it: a younger, smaller Yuri, gathering branches in his hands to feed a meager fire and keep his dying mother warm.

"He was standing there," Yuri whispers, his gaze fixed on nothing. "He called me by name. I remember wondering how he knew."

"Your father?" I venture, afraid to step on something delicate. Something that might crack under the weight of too many questions.

Yuri gives a bitter laugh. "In a way. Matvey had been tracking his movements. Somehow, that led him to me."

How old could Matvey have been then? Eleven? Twelve?

Subconsciously, I run my hand over my belly. I think of Nugget, alone in the world. The mere idea makes my heart ache.

"I'm glad he found you," I say sincerely, even though it's not my place.

Yuri gives me an odd look. "Yeah," he says eventually, "I'm glad he found me, too. If he hadn't…"

I don't dare think it. Again, images of the two brothers overlap with Nugget. If I had to leave someone behind like that, if I had no other choice…

I'd want to know they wouldn't be alone.

"That week, my mom died," Yuri confesses in the end. "Matvey helped me care for her until she went. Afterwards, he helped me bury her. And then he took me into his Bratva."

It's so easy, isn't it? Judging a book by its cover. Judging people for living in the shadows. Like it's a choice for everyone.

For so many, it's no choice at all.

That's when I realize: Matvey founded his Bratva as a kid. That, or he took up the mantle from someone else. Either way, he never had a childhood.

Looking at the toys now, I can't help but see them in a different light.

Toys. Family dinner. Everything he never had.

Everything I never had, either.

Yuri pushes the last box on top of the wardrobe. Without thinking, I rest a hand on his shoulder.

He freezes. The look he gives me is quizzical, confused. Like what I'm doing is something completely foreign.

Thank God I didn't hug him. He'd have sprinted out the door.

"Hey," I say, leading him out of the guest room. Away from painful conversations and painful memories. "How about a cup of tea?"