39. April

39

APRIL

I stare down at the text that just made my phone light up.

Can't make it tonight. Something came up.

Huh. That's weird. Ever since I came here, Matvey hasn't missed a single family dinner. It's that important to him. If he's missing it now, he must have a good reason.

I try to swallow down the tiny lump in my throat. Why am I disappointed? Dear God, why am I sad ? When did I turn into a dog with separation anxiety?

Shaking off the sensation, I type a quick reply. Hope everything's okay! No problem for dinner. Then, feeling a little bold, I add: You'll just have to make it up to me.

I nearly tag on a heart emoji, then slap myself mentally. Girl, what the hell? Play it cool for once in your life.

"Why are you having a stroke?"

I jump. While I wasn't paying attention, Petra snuck up all the way behind me. Jeez, wear a bell!

Before I can gather my wits, she peers over my shoulder. Her face scrunches up. "‘Something came up'?" she parrots.

"I'm sure it's nothing," I reassure her. I get the feeling it's as much for my benefit as it is for hers, but I quickly swat at that crumb of self-awareness.

She scoffs. "It's overtime, is what it is. That mudak. "

Not for the first time, I wonder if the Russian language's completely made up of swear words. "You guys don't have to stay," I offer. "If you're busy…"

"Of course I'm busy."

Busy raiding my pantry? I throw a glance at Lena and Julia. I still haven't managed to figure out which of Petra's bodyguards is which—nametags would be a wonderful addition to the uniform—but if there's another way they're completely alike aside from their appearances, it's their eating habits.

Which seem to include everything.

Hey, I'm not one to judge. All that muscle can't come for free. It's just that I was actually planning to eat, too.

Thank God for room service. And Matvey's bottomless wallet.

Next to me, Petra's still tapping her foot, but she also isn't leaving. Which I take as a sign that either she's not as busy as she claims, or that she can't . Matvey probably swore her to babysitting duty. All of a sudden, I'm feeling like a kid whose parents' date night is stretching out longer than they've paid for.

So I blurt out, "Wanna stay for dinner?"

Petra looks at me like I've gone mad. "Excuse me?"

"I mean—" I gesture towards the twins. "—they've already started. We could order room service?"

"Dinner," Petra repeats flatly. "With you."

Damn. This is going to be a harder sell than I thought. "Matvey's paying?" I try to sweeten the deal. "We can get lobster thermidor or whatever it is rich people eat?"

The twins perk up at that. "I could eat," says Lena.

"Be rude to say no," agrees Julia.

Which leaves only one holdout. "C'mon," I whip out my best puppy eyes. "We can have a girls' night. Paint each other's rifle guns and all."

I watch Petra falter. "You're seriously inviting me?" she asks, squinting suspiciously around the room like there are prank show cameras hidden in the crown molding.

"I seriously am."

"To dinner?"

"To dinner. On Matvey's card."

Her eyes narrow. "Which one?"

"I don't know." I shrug. "The black one? Aren't they all bottomless anyway?"

Petra's mouth opens and closes like a goldfish. I can taste victory already. What's that saying? If you can't beat them, aggressively befriend them?

And then, just as Petra's about to give me an answer?—

BOOM!

I watch the door fly clean off its hinges.

The twins leap into action. Before I can even understand what's going on, they've made a human wall before us, shielding me and Petra. Their guns are already raised.

A figure stumbles into the apartment. In the next second, it's shot full of holes.

Then I scream.

It's not an intruder. It's a waiter—one I've seen often enough in the evenings. The one who always brings our cart.

But, judging by how little blood pools under his body…

He was already dead , I realize. "It's a decoy!" I yell.

Just then, more bullets fly in from the doorway. If the twins had taken just one more step towards the body, they'd have been shot full of holes, too.

Then an army of masked men swarms in.

Bullets start raining down in all directions. I grab blindly for something, anything, to use as a weapon. I've almost got my hands on a frying pan—if it's good enough for Rapunzel, it's good enough for me—when Petra suddenly grabs my wrist.

With near superhuman strength, she drags me behind the kitchen counter. "Stay down," she snarls.

Then she's off, too.

Okay . I force myself to breathe. This is fine. Still not worse than Carolina Torres's quincea?era. You can handle this, right?

I most definitely can't, but I'm not about to admit that.

I peer from behind the counter. The action's exploded everywhere: couches have been overturned, walls have been decorated with smoking polka dots, the air's been filled with eau de gunpowder. Just another Bratva Tuesday. Right?

I take stock of the bodies on the floor. One, two, three—five bodies. When I realize that none of them seem to belong to women, I breathe a sigh of relief.

But there are still five more men on their feet, shooting everything in sight.

I whip out my phone. It's the burner Matvey gave me—the one to reach him at all times.

Pick up, pick up, pick up…

Tears prickle at the corners of my eyes. I keep making a single, desperate wish: If only Matvey was here.

But he isn't, and the call rings out.

"It's okay," I whisper to my baby. "I'll keep you safe for both of us."

It's an empty promise. Right now, I have no power to keep anybody safe—least of all myself. Is this how it starts? Lying to your kids?

Suddenly, I hear steps close by. I clutch my pan tighter and peer out again?—

And I find myself face-to-face with a masked man's gun.

This is it , I realize with an odd sort of calm. I'm going to die.

And then: But fuck it, I'm not going to make it easy.

I yell out a battle cry. I swing my pan wildly, kicking the man's gun God-knows-where. I can't see the intruder's face beyond the mask, but I can tell he wasn't expecting resistance. That a heavily pregnant woman with no battle training wouldn't go gently into that goodnight.

Think again, bitch.

But my triumph is short-lived. The man yanks my frying pan away single-handedly and mutters something in Russian. Call me a skeptic, but it doesn't sound like anything good.

And then, just as I've wrapped both my arms around my belly in a desperate attempt to shield my baby?—

The man drops to the ground, a stiletto heel sticking out of his skull.

"I thought I told you to stay down."

Never in my life have I been so glad to hear Petra's voice. "Wasn't working for me," I croak, a half-assed attempt at joking the tension away.

Petra makes a haughty sound in her throat. "Is that so?" she throws her remaining shoe away. "Then watch."

With a leap, she lands on the counter. There's a gun in her right hand and a set of throwing knives in her right.

I couldn't look away if I tried.

She flies back into the fray—literally. I watch her do a flip mid-air, landing on the back of whichever poor bastard was unlucky enough to be closest. Without hesitation, she shoots his brains out.

I should be disgusted. I should be crying and screaming and throwing up everything I've ever eaten.

But honestly?

It looks badass as fuck.

Petra doesn't stop to admire her kill. Instead, she flies off the guy's shoulders before he starts to drop and lands squarely on the second. Her thighs wrap around the man's neck and squeeze.

"Wanted in fifteen countries," was it?

I think a few more ought to add her to their no-fly lists.

The second guy drops as dead as the first. Only then do Petra's feet finally touch the ground. She lands with unearthly grace, a cat or a ghost.

Or—

Solovyova. I remember looking it up. After our first meeting, I wanted to know who I was dealing with.

I couldn't find anything. Petra really was a ghost. All I came up with was that Instagram account I managed to find before the wedding, and a word from an automatic translator.

Nightingale .

That's exactly what Petra looks like as she fights: a bird, flying weightlessly through the air, swooping down at the last second to paint the snow red.

And her father still refuses to make her into a vor ? Fuck that. If it were up to me, I'd let her run the whole damn show.

Just as I'm thinking that, Petra whirls around to the third guy and throws a knife straight through his eye.

It's the last body to drop. Lena and Julia have already taken care of the remaining two, sent to join their comrades on the floor. Ten assassins—all dispatched in less than five minutes.

Petra turns to me, slightly out of breath. "You okay there, koshka ?"

I give a stunned nod. "Yeah, I'm okay."

"Everybody else?"

Lena and Julia shrug in unison. "Good workout."

"Bit hungry."

"Great," Petra says. "Get this mess cleaned up. We can get pizza later."

The promise of food seems to be a powerful motivator. Just like that, the twins roll up their sleeves and get to work.

"Yura," Petra says into her phone. I can't make out anything else she says—it's all in Russian.

Is she calling Yuri? I wonder. Why not Matvey?

But then I remember that I tried to call Matvey, too—and he didn't pick up.

Bitterness wells up in my mouth. Wasn't this a rule? That no matter when I called, he was going to answer me?

I turn away from the scene. Petra's kills had a kind of glamor to them, but the twins stuffing bodies into trash bags is something I'd rather not have nightmares about.

"I'll go make some coffins— coffee ," I blurt out. "Anybody want coffee?"

Three bloodied hands rise.

I start to prepare for three. Then I figure we're gonna have company soon. Yuri. Grisha. Matvey.

I say fuck it and make a whole pot.