45. Matvey

45

MATVEY

"What's wrong?" Yuri asks, leaning over my right shoulder.

"Is it Ms. Flowers?" Grisha chimes in, leaning over my left.

Merry fucking wives, the both of you. But I don't have it in me to scold them right now. Because what I'm staring at is… concerning.

A selfie with my fiancée and my baby mama, playing dress-up in my penthouse.

"They're… bonding ," I grimace.

Petra's face is the worst of it. She always looks like an angry chipmunk: cheeks puffed up in outrage, front teeth biting into her bottom lip like she can't wait to tear someone's throat out with them.

And yet, in this one, she's also… happy?

Behind me, Grisha whistles. "That's some talent on Ms. Flowers's part."

"The dress?"

Even I have to agree with that. I'm not the type to notice what women are wearing. If I'm interested, I'll just tear it right off—April can testify to that. But when it comes to April's work… then, even a heathen like me has to recognize talent when he sees it.

But Grisha shakes his head. "The gown's impressive, but I was talking about the taming of the shrew."

Ah, right. Petra. "Tamer than I've ever seen her," I agree.

"She hasn't killed April yet. That's an accomplishment in and of itself."

I notice that Yuri seems to be boiling over next to me. "You alright, brother?" I ask him.

"Just thinking that someone here has got guts, insulting an ally like that," he mutters, glaring daggers in Grisha's direction.

Here they go again. I swear, whenever these two are in a room together, my Bratva turns into a goddamn kindergarten.

I follow Yuri's gaze back to the picture. I don't think the man has blinked. "Should I send you a copy, brother?"

"What?" Yuri shakes himself. "No, I was just… the dress," he blurts out. "Grisha's right. April's good at what she does."

My third and I share a look. We don't speak, but we're both thinking the same thing: Did Yuri just say the words "Grisha's right"?

"Yurochka?" Grisha asks carefully. "You aren't running a fever, are you?"

"You are looking a bit flushed," I agree. "If you're not feeling up to this…"

"What? No," Yuri scoffs. "Fuck all the way off, both of you."

"Oh, good, he's come to his senses," Grisha deadpans.

"Shut up."

"Both of you shut up," I cut in. "It's time. Let's go."

Even as I say that, I throw the picture one last glance. I can see why Yuri was so mesmerized: April's work is astonishing. Seeing a dress like this in a boutique's window display is one thing, but watching it come to life under someone's hands?

That's something else entirely.

I wonder, briefly, if this was Maia's doing, too. If April's grandmother taught her to sew, just like she taught her how to love the world and everyone in it. Even the ones who don't deserve it.

Right now, I suspect I can count myself among them.

It's a shitty feeling: keeping April at arm's length, rebuking her attempts at closeness—it's all so wrong. The other night, every part of me was screaming against it: Don't let her go. Don't push her away.

Don't you leave her alone, too.

But I don't have a choice.

I pocket my phone and stride into the Venus Lounge. "Welcome!" Stanislav greets me with a warm handshake. "It's an honor to have you here, moy pakhan. "

I'd rather have stayed home , I think but don't say. "The honor's all mine," I reply instead. "Your numbers speak for themselves."

The thing is, they do. After his mediocre performance last quarter, Stanislav took it upon himself to crush the competition. When I heard he was planning to open a new location in Little Italy, I thought he'd finally lost it. You don't put a restaurant here if you can't back it up with skill; the locals will eat you alive.

But in the end, the gamble paid off. Thanks to this location alone, Stanislav might come up on top in next quarter's earnings meeting. Not above Araes, of course, but definitely above everybody else.

Maybe that's why, for once, he's smiling. A rare sight indeed. "Thank you, moy pakhan. I hope you'll enjoy our cooking tonight."

"I'm looking forward to it."

A waitress leads us to the VIP table. I can see the other patrons gawking at her as she walks. Is she pretty? I can't tell. Lately, I've lost all interest in going on the hunt.

Once, I would've noticed. I would've followed her into the pantry and made her scream until she couldn't breathe. Until there wasn't one patron left who didn't know exactly what we were doing.

Now, all I can think of is a tailor shop's changing room.

Get it together , I snarl at myself. Especially here.

As if following my train of thought, Yuri asks, "Is it true that the food here…?"

Grisha snorts. "Puberty finally catching up with you, Yurochka?"

"How about I stick a baguette up your ass and watch it wave out of your mouth?"

"It's not," I cut in before Yuri can get any more graphic. "It's all advertising."

There's a reason Venus Lounge is called that: every food item on the menu is, without exception, made up of aphrodisiac ingredients.

Well, alleged aphrodisiacs. If a chocolate-dipped fig's enough to get your blood flowing, you probably didn't need it to begin with. But the theme has made the lounges very popular with couples wanting to try something new. Young adults come here on a dare, couples book a table for their anniversary, and slimy bosses take their secretaries here to hint at what they're really looking for in their working relationship. Mostly, they just manage to make them uncomfortable as all hell.

Either way, the Venus Lounges make a boatload of money.

At the table, the vory greet me. It wasn't long ago that we were meeting just like this, around good food and celebration.

That time, it didn't end well.

Our aperitifs are laid out before us. I watch Yuri pick suspiciously at an avocado and salmon tart, probably waiting to hear the crunch of a hidden Viagra pill under his teeth. "Isn't this nice?" Ipatiy beams from my left. "Celebrating success—now, that's what being Bratva's all about."

" Vashe zdarovye !" Gora cheers. "I'll drink to that!"

For some reason, everything about this conversation irks me. No, that's not right—it pisses me the fuck off. Being filthy rich off restaurants and clubs? That's what being Bratva's all about?

The mother of my child was almost killed twice, and they're drinking to our success ?

Blyat' , my men have gone soft. Worse, they've gone native. Forgotten what it's like to have to be one step ahead of frostbite at all times. Forgotten what it's like to fight.

Well, I'm about to goddamn remind them.

I slam my glass down. The cheer at the table dies. Silence fills the space where laughter reigned not five seconds ago.

"Is something the matter, pakhan ?" Ivan asks quietly.

I draw myself up in my seat. "While we're here celebrating, our most important project still lies unfinished. Or does anybody here have more good news to share?"

The vory exchange glances. " Moy pakhan… the acquisition is proceeding," Gora blurts out. "It's nearly in the bag."

"‘Nearly' isn't good enough."

"It's just…" Ipatiy's voice cuts in. "It'd be easier for all of us if we knew what we were doing. In D.C., I mean."

"You don't need to know what you're doing," I snarl. "You need to do it. Or have I not made myself clear enough?"

"Matvey."

I turn. Ivan's gaze is a piercing shade of blue—almost white. Icy, like the rivers back home. If there's one of us who hasn't forgotten what we came here for, that should be him.

But lately, Ivan's been leading the resistance. He's been pushing back against me more than anybody else. And yet, it still manages to surprise me when he asks, cold and factual, "Do we need to prepare for war?"

War. That's a word you don't throw out lightly at a Bratva table. These men, who had just been celebrating their success—with that one word, they're done boasting about what they've gained. Now, all they can think about is how quickly they could lose it all.

I rise. Grisha and Yuri follow suit. I catch Yuri's worried gaze, the same he'd been wearing at the Hedoneros inauguration, but I don't let it shake me. Right now, I can't afford to be shaken.

So I stare Ivan dead in the eye and I tell him the truth. "Always be ready for war."

Then I do what I've been wanting to do ever since I got here.

I grab my jacket and fucking leave.