34. Matvey

34

MATVEY

I haven't even been at the office for five seconds before two folders are slammed onto my desk.

Well, not slammed exactly. Grisha's face is as serene as ever, but the stack is just that heavy. Even Yuri does a double-take at the sight.

"Ballistics report," he announces, pointing at the thinner file, "plus a full background check on April's family."

Instinctively, I reach for the first report. I can tell that's what Yuri wants to read, too, his hungry gaze zeroing in on it. Those were his men that got killed. If anyone's going to want justice, it's him.

But Grisha's words stop me. "Family?" I repeat.

"That's right," Grisha confirms. "I took the liberty of researching her father's side as well. Everything's in there from her birth to the day she turned eighteen."

I stare at the second folder. I only asked for details on April's mother, but my subordinate has always been thorough to a fault. Now, April's entire past is at my fingertips.

Veering at the last moment, I snatch the background check instead.

"Christ," I mutter, weighing it in my hands. "What's this, the goddamn Bible?"

Grisha shrugs. "What's the Bible if not a family saga?"

Shaking my head, I open it. The first page is mostly housekeeping: April's date of birth, nationality, blood type. Nothing of particular interest.

Yuri walks around the table, perching behind me to look over my shoulder. "That's a lot of paper," he comments.

"Ever seen a file so thick when we vet our recruits?"

"Negative."

"Yeah. Me neither." I turn to the summary page. A mother, Eleanor Hill, born Fisher. A father, Dominic Flowers. So far, nothing out of the ordinary. They were married seven years before splitting in a drawn-out court battle for alimony.

Money for the ex-wife—that's what mattered to these mudaks . Not the kid.

Then, between April's seventh and eighth birthdays, both parents settled down with new people: Eleanor Fisher became Mrs. Hill, marrying one Thomas Hill, and Dominic Flowers took a second wife by the name of Nora Le Blanc.

Grisha whistles. "Not one, but two evil step-parents."

"When did you get over here?" Yuri balks, suddenly walled in between me and his nosy colleague. "And why ‘evil'?"

"Have you ever been in the company of Ms. Flowers?" Grisha asks rhetorically. "She had me over for tea once. Broke a teacup. For a whole minute, she looked like she was scared I was gonna gun her down for it."

Yuri's face darkens. "Yeah. I smeared the wall while putting the toys away and she spent fifteen minutes scrubbing it clean again."

"Quiet," I bark.

I rub my temples. I couldn't give a rat's ass about some cup and some smeared wall. All I can think of is April's anxious grimace at dinner, those early nights when she didn't know who she was dealing with.

Tense. Ready to bolt.

I want to snatch up whoever did this to her and make them regret ever being born.

But this file doesn't have that. This file has names, information, and sterile words on a sheet. So that's what I'm gonna work with.

For now.

"This says her mother's been to rehab," I note with a frown.

Yuri leans in to look, while Grisha nods. "That's right. Several quick staycations at the expenses of one charitable organization or another."

"Quick" is an understatement. From these records, it looks like Mrs. Hill didn't even get to step three of the program. I can't imagine she ever made it to step nine: making amends.

If that phone call with April is anything to go by, she's not even aware she should.

"What's her poison?"

"Alcohol."

I grimace. April's pregnant, so of course I've never seen her touch even a drop of the stuff, but I can't help remembering that night out on the balcony. The skittish way she handed me my bourbon.

"What about Thomas Hill?"

Grisha helpfully points to the blue tag. "That's his section. Chronically unemployed. Saturday night poker every week, a few debts here and there."

"Average scumbag," I summarize.

"Pretty much," Grisha says. "But there's one thing worth noting, I think."

He turns the page, squishing Yuri against the wall in the process. Yuri makes an offended sound, but I don't pay it any mind. I'm far too busy grinding my teeth into dust.

"This is a police report."

"For domestic violence," Grisha fills in.

"Great," Yuri snarks. "A wife-beater. What a catch."

I scan the page. Luckily, I don't see April's name anywhere on this. Only Eleanor's and a certain Charlie's, plus a couple of pictures of nasty bruises.

Charlie —that must be the brother April mentioned.

I inhale through my nose. Just because something hasn't been reported, it doesn't mean it didn't happen. It doesn't mean April was safe.

I snap the section shut. "What about April's biological father?"

Grisha turns to a purple-coded page. "Dominic Flowers, aged fifty-seven. Has three more daughters by his second wife, all teenagers: Anne, Catherine, and Diana Flowers-Le Blanc."

"This says they live in the Upper East Side," Yuri comments, elbowing Grisha away.

That's the first thing I noticed, too. By the looks of these records—bank statements, properties, shares—the Flowers family should be loaded . If April came from money, why would she share a ratty Brooklyn hole-in-the-wall with a friend who worked minimum wage? Why would she stick to a diet of pre-packaged mac and cheese?

Why would she struggle ?

"Her address," I demand. "Show me her addresses across the years."

Grisha obliges. "Until the age of seven, she lived with her parents in Manhattan. Then—" He points at the next line over. "—here. For the next ten years or so."

A Brooklyn brownstone. "This is registered to Dominic Flowers."

"It is," Grisha confirms. "But Dominic wasn't living there. Instead, this person was."

I glance at the unfamiliar name: Maia Toussaint.

"This woman," I say. "Maia. Tell me about her."

Grisha's about to turn the page when Yuri finally manages to slither under his arm. "Maia Toussaint," he reads out loud. "Born in Haiti. Green Card by marriage to one Augustus Flowers." He frowns. "That's not April's dad, is it?"

"It's not," Grisha answers. He settles his chin obnoxiously on Yuri's head in retribution and continues, "That's April's grandfather. He died shortly after she was born. Maia was his second wife—Dominic's mother had already passed."

"It looks like Maia lived with Dominic throughout most of his first marriage," Yuri says, scanning the page. "Then, when he split, she must've taken April in."

Maia Toussaint. April's grandmother by marriage, not by blood—and yet, from these files, she might have been the only one who truly cared about her.

"There's no record of a custody battle," I observe.

"Not exactly," Grisha clarifies. "The court transcript says there was a brief scuffle between Eleanor and Dominic over who was going to keep the child, but for the opposite reason."

Yuri frowns. "Meaning?"

"Meaning neither one wanted custody."

I clench my fist under the table. No wonder April's so jaded about blood. All her life, she's been betrayed by the ones she came from—and saved by the ones who had no obligation to help her.

"Oh," Yuri mutters. "This says Maia…"

"She died." Grisha nods. "Seven years ago."

Seven years ago. How old was April then? Sixteen? Seventeen?

That's when her address records become a mess, I realize. Staten Island to the Upper East Side, then Staten Island again—switching schools, switching houses. Every few months, she'd be ping-ponged between her parents. "What the hell?"

"There's your custody battle," Yuri says grimly. "A shadow war of ‘You take her; no, YOU take her.' "

"After Maia's death, the brownstone was sold," Grisha fills in. "It was sudden. She didn't leave a will, or at least none that I could find. Dominic got everything."

"And kept the money," I guess.

"And kept the money. Every last cent."

I need Grisha to keep this file locked away from me. This thing has addresses, workplaces, license plates—everything I need to turn these motherfuckers' lives into hell. If I have to look at this for one more second, I won't be responsible for what comes out of my mouth next. Maybe it'll be a kill order—maybe it'll be worse.

So I snap the folder shut and breathe. "Grisha."

"Yes?"

"Keep this for me. Don't let anyone see it."

Grisha bows. "At your service."

A shitty family. Two shitty parents, two shitty step-parents. A sea of half-siblings who got everything April didn't. And one woman—only one—who took pity on her and raised her as her own: Maia. Her grandmother.

So of course April twitches at every loud noise. Of course she rushes to clean up after herself and others, trembling at the thought of consequences. Of course she was scared to tell me she was pregnant—who knows what I would've done? How could she know?

I want to go scorched earth on these fuckers. I want them to pay for every tear they've made her shed, every invisible scar they've given her.

But why do I want that?

April's my co-parent. Knowing about this is enough for my purposes: keeping my child safe. Everything in these pages has already happened. I can't turn back time for April to grow up safe, loved, wanted—and I shouldn't even care.

So why do I?

Suddenly, I feel like a kid again. I'm back in that shed-turned-house, buried in the snow, a weak fire flickering over ashes. My mother, coughing her life away; her child, powerless to do anything.

It's been a while since I've felt that: powerlessness.

I shake myself. I shouldn't be thinking like this. April's nothing to me.

The thought scrapes like nails on a chalkboard, but I swiftly bury the noise.

There's one last problem, too: April hasn't told me any of this. I can't possibly bring it up. She's already scared shitless of every shadow—what am I even going to say?

Good evening, co-parent. I went down the rabbit hole of your past and found out your parents are horrible and the one woman who ever loved you is dead. Wanna fuck your troubles away?

I rise from my chair. "Let's go."

Yuri frowns. "Go where?"

"Out," I say, impatient. "We have work to do. Don't make me say it again."

"But—"

" Yura. "

Yuri swallows his words. "Yes, pakhan ."

Then he's at my heels, Grisha in tow, and we're out of the office and into the city, thinking no more of April Flowers.

And then, several hours later, I see the bodyguards' calls.