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30. Matvey

30

MATVEY

As soon as I climb into the car, Grisha's nose twitches like a hound on a scent.

I watch him sniff the air without even trying to hide his intrigue. I'd remind him of curiosity and all the cats it did in, but honestly, I'm just too goddamn spent.

"Bath salts?" he ventures.

"Yes," I drawl, sliding in my seat. "New brand. It's called None of Your Fucking Business. "

Grisha whistles. "Never heard of it."

"Tell me something I don't know."

All I wanted tonight was to stay in that bathtub. Stay until I'd had April in every conceivable position above and below the water. Above and below me. Until my fingers pruned beyond repair, until my neck spawned gills. For one more taste of that little siren, I'd have learned to breathe underwater.

Unfortunately, work is a thing.

I gaze out the window as Grisha carries me through Manhattan traffic. It's a nightmare during the day, but at night, it's… not any different. It's the purpose of it that changes: under the sun, people trudge to work, cursing the day they were not born rich. Under the moon, they thrive.

It's not quite the same if you're Bratva.

Being Bratva means standing on top of the world regardless of how you were born. It means biting into life and feasting on the juices, knowing no one can keep you from drinking it dry.

It also means you don't get to keep office hours.

But my mind doesn't seem to care about that. Tonight, my mind has well and truly betrayed me, deciding to stay behind in that tub with the object of my desires.

And, now, my concerns.

"She must have loved you very much to say that."

"Yeah, right. She was talking about Charlie, not me."

It isn't the first time April's mentioned her family. Or rather, that she talks about it like a special kind of hell she's lucky to have escaped from.

It is the first time she's mentioned her mom.

I shouldn't care. The former Mrs. Flowers should be no one to me except my child's future babushka . I should pretend she never mentioned anything and move on with my?—

"Grisha, what do you know about April's mother?"

Goddammit. I tell myself that practicality is why I'm asking. If this woman is a danger to my child, I need to know.

If this woman was a danger to hers ?—

"Not much," Grisha answers. "We checked the basics. Eleanor Hill, forty-four years old. She has a daughter from her first marriage—that'd be Ms. Flowers—and a son from her second. Currently lives on Staten Island with her husband and kid."

It sounds so utterly mundane. So unlike anything worth investigating.

I don't trust it one bit.

"Run a full background check," I order. "I want to know everything about this woman and her known associates. Don't leave anything out, especially from her past."

Grisha gives me a curious glance from the rear-view mirror. If he has a comment, for once, he's wise enough to keep it to himself. "Yes, sir."

Then we pull up to the venue.

A valet takes the car for us. I unfurl from my seat with a pop of my shoulders. That bone-deep relaxation I was feeling in the bath has evaporated completely. It's a message from my body to my mind: from now on, it's all business.

Which is curious, considering where we are.

Hedoneros Club. The Groza Bratva's newest business venture: an exclusive club with stellar franchise potential, spearheaded by our newest vor . A man of excess—and this club reflects that in every detail, starting from the name: the goddess of pleasure and the god of love, joined in a single tacky neologism.

Ipatiy comes to greet me at the entrance. He's a portly man with a sunny disposition and a knack for making friends worth millions. The Mu?oz family, for example, who controls shipments for every experimental drug this side of the East Coast and often has him over for dinner. Apparently, César makes a mean empanada.

"Welcome, welcome!" my man bellows, grinning from ear to ear.

"Ipatiy," I greet with a firm handshake. "Opening night seems to be going well."

"Oh, more than well, moy pakhan ." Ipatiy beams. "Did you see the line out front? Stretches all the way into the street."

I didn't. Men like me don't stand in line, and I don't often pay attention to things that don't concern me. Still, I give a short nod. "Impressive."

"Thank you, sir. That means the world, coming from you."

It damn well should. "I'm assuming there's a table for us somewhere."

"Oh! Of course!" Ipatiy flounders, rubbing his thick hands together. "This way, please."

Ipatiy leads us through the club, giving us the panoramic view. Blue and red lights cast their neon glow over the guests' faces, painting everyone in a double hue that never quite melts into purple. Eros and Hedone—love and pleasure.

If there are two things that aren't meant to mesh, it's those two.

A futuristic-looking elevator takes us to the roof. I step out onto a terrace filled with greenery, encased in a glass dome that turns the night sky into the club's starlit ceiling. I hum with approval on the inside, but don't let it show. The worst thing a vor can do is get cocky. I won't let Ipatiy think he's already got what he's chasing.

Besides, my approval is fickle.

And a lot can happen in one night.

Ipatiy leads us to a round table at the edge of the dome. Yuri's already there, springing up when he sees me. "Motya."

My lips twitch with a smile I keep to myself. The relief on Yuri's face is impossible to miss. There's only one thing he hates more than socializing, and that's socializing by himself. Even Grisha's presence at my side isn't enough to put him off.

"Enjoy yourself, brother?" I ask, biting back a smirk.

"To death. Hopefully, it comes sooner rather than later."

Next to us, Ipatiy preens, seeming to take it as a compliment. Then he excuses himself to go greet the stragglers.

"Poor Yurochka," Grisha croons to Yuri as soon as Ipatiy's out of earshot. "Up so late past your bedtime. Do you want the car keys? You can take a nap in the backseat."

"I'm shocked the DMV's still letting you drive."

"Down, boys," I chide. "Or else I'll have to order you to kiss and make up, and no one here wants to see that."

They grumble and grouse, but neither one is keyed up enough to keep picking a fight right now. Not when there's business to attend to.

"Champagne?" a smiling waitress asks with exquisite timing as she glides by with a tray.

"Yes," we all say in unison.

I sit at the head of the table, letting myself be swept up in greetings and kiss-assery of every kind. This may be Ipatiy's venture, but I'm the one who gave the green light; I'm the one who invested. Therefore, his success is mine.

So would be his failure.

But it doesn't seem like I'll have to be concerned about that. Below, pills were swapping hands like coins, and up here, where the atmosphere is clearly intended to come across as classier, I can still spy little round pick-me-ups wrapped in napkins or sliding between tongues.

Oh, well. Ipatiy can iron out the kinks. As long as the bottom line's promising, I won't look too closely.

"And we're all here!"

Speak of the devil.

Ipatiy walks back to our table with Ivan. He's got an arm lazily draped over Ivan's shoulder, which everyone can tell isn't going over well except for the man himself. My oldest vor looks just about ready to crawl out of his skin, pulsing vein and all. Ipatiy tightens his hold in a show of friendship, and I could swear Ivan's eye starts twitching.

"Ivan," I say, "nice of you to join us. Come sit."

Ipatiy's grabby hand finally falls away. I spy a flash of relief on Ivan's face—the slump of aborted carnage. With a stiff nod, he takes his place across from me.

For a while, the night is bearable. I have to give it to Ipatiy: the man knows how to show hospitality. Refined appetizers make their way onto our table, from caviar tarts to crab tapas , with a fine selection of cheeses and rare honey dips. I take small sips out of my champagne, wanting to keep sharp, but I can tell from the heat rising to my men's cheeks that the drink list measures up to the food. I pop a cube of brie with orange blossom honey and pistachios into my mouth, and all I can think about is April back home: her ravenous hunger for fine things she never got to try, her quiet little moans of pleasure when a morsel melted into her mouth.

God, I wish I was here with her.

The thought snaps me out of my reverie. Why would I want that? April's no one. Nobody. She's the mother of my child—but to me, she's nothing.

A co-parent, sure. A person to protect for the sake of my kid.

But she's not a date.

Events like these, they have rules. Codes, and very strict ones at that. A pakhan walking into a business christening with a woman on his arm…

He wouldn't do that unless that woman was important. Unless she was his.

April could be yours , the most feral, possessive part of me snarls. She'd be yours if you claimed her.

But I can't claim her like that.

Then, suddenly, I feel a kick under the table. "Matvey," Yuri hisses, bringing me back to the present.

I realize the vory are looking at me. Someone must've been trying to get my attention.

"This is Ipatiy's night, Gora," says Grisha pleasantly. "Certainly, the D.C. acquisition can wait."

So that's what they were asking after. "Grisha's right," I say. "We can talk business in the morning. Tonight, we're celebrating."

Of course, I would rather talk business if I'm to be here. Truthfully, I'd rather not be here at all. But if that's not an option, then I'd gladly make this time count.

Unfortunately, I wasn't listening to a single word that was spoken, so that rules it out.

"That may be true, boss," Stanislav intercepts. "But surely…"

"Surely you can drop the mystery now," another voice cuts in. " Sir ."

I look up. Ivan returns my gaze with something unusual in it. Something close to fire.

Has he ever spoken to me like that?

Ivan's lip twitches. Passing his outburst off as a joke, he continues, "It's good to be kept on your toes, but we didn't join the Russian ballet. There's no secrets among brothers. Right?"

A few voices chime in to agree.

Ah. So that's how it is. I got distracted for one minute, and here I am—cornered by my own men, demanding answers. Demanding transparency.

Another reason I can't let April sink any deeper into me: for better or worse, she's a distraction.

And I cannot afford to be distracted.

"You're right."

A hush falls over the table. Everyone's eyes are on me now. Yuri's are bulging most of all, disbelief written into every muscle.

"You did join the Bratva," I continue calmly. " My Bratva. The Bratva my grandfather founded. You remember Igor Groza, don't you, Ivan?"

Ivan tenses. I see his hand go tight around a napkin. Good. "I could never forget," he mumbles. As expected of my grandfather's most loyal man.

"And yet, you forget yourself. This is still the Groza Bratva, is it not?"

Ivan grits his teeth. "It is."

"And I'm still the pakhan , correct?"

"… Correct."

Of course Ivan hasn't forgotten. When I was rebuilding the Groza Bratva from its ruins, he sought me out. Wanted to see the blood heir of the man he'd followed into the darkness of the underworld. The man he'd failed to protect.

He wanted to make it right.

I don't know if he's still trying to do that. If this is all a misguided attempt at protecting my grandfather's legacy.

But this is my Bratva now.

And I'll be damned if I let a single vor undermine me in front of the rest.

"Then you've got nothing to worry about," I conclude, draining my glass. "Enjoy the opportunities of this new continent. Enjoy the power, the money, the fame. Enjoy tonight. But don't make the mistake of forgetting who made it all possible."

"How gracious," Ivan replies thinly. "It seems our fearless leader forgets, too. That he didn't accomplish all of this alone."

A murmur of assent lifts from the table. I nip that shit right in the fucking bud.

"Of course not."

For once, my vory are speechless. Not a single one of them was expecting me to agree. Perhaps they were even anticipating an outburst.

On another night, I might've given them that. I might've snarled and put them back into their place by their scruffs.

Tonight, though, I've had a very nice bath.

"After all," I say, rising from my seat, "my family was always there by my side. Isn't that right?"

Every single vor tenses like a violin. There's no mistaking the meaning of my words—they all know where they stand on family.

And they all know I don't consider them part of mine.

But Bratva means brotherhood. Ivan used that very word earlier, referring to us all as brothers. So how could they possibly disagree?

"Enjoy the rest of your night," I murmur. And then I leave.

Two sets of footsteps ring after mine. One of them is faster, hurried. It catches up in seconds. "Motya."

"What?" I snap, my patience used up.

"This—" my brother hesitates, trying to find the words. "This isn't smart," he settles on. "You know that, right? You can't just alienate the vory . You need them."

"I really don't."

"Matvey—"

"I never needed them." I shrug, striding through the blue-and-red lights. "I had you. That was always enough for me."

Yuri's step falters. "That's not fair," he bites back eventually. "To them, I mean."

"I don't care what's fair to them," I growl. "They're not blood. They're just glorified attack dogs. They'll take what bones I throw at them and they'll be fucking grateful for my generosity."

Next to me, Yuri falls quiet. We make it outside and wait for Grisha to bring the car around.

"Dogs… they're loyal," Yuri remarks at last. "But even the most loyal dog will bite if backed into a corner."

"Will it?" I ask idly. "Then I'll just have to put it down."

For the entire ride back, Yuri doesn't speak a word.

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