50. Matvey

50

MATVEY

" Blyat' ," Petra curses after Yuri's filled her in.

My thoughts exactly. This could bust everything wide open: the operation, our dreams, all of it. That's the only reason I had Yuri call her in. Unbearable or not, she's still my business partner. If I lose, she loses.

And neither of us can afford to lose.

"Grisha, call the vory ," I order him. "Yuri, help him."

Yuri looks like he's on the verge of arguing again, but Grisha puts a firm hand on his shoulder. "We're on it." Then he steers my brother out of the room.

"I don't get it." Petra stops pacing. "Can't we just buy somewhere else?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because we can't."

"But why ?"

"Because I fucking said so!" I snap.

Petra stares at me. "Matvey Groza, I swear to God, if you don't tell me what's going on right now, I'm going to marry the next guy that comes through that fucking door and take my army with me."

I ball up my fists. "I don't enjoy being threatened, Petra."

"And I don't enjoy going in blind, so how about we cut the shit and start being honest with each other?"

I take a deep breath. As much as it pains me to admit it, Yuri hasn't been completely wrong all this time. Clearly, keeping people in the dark hasn't been working as well as I'd hoped.

So I swallow my pride and spit out the truth. "It's because of the Bonaccorsi family."

Petra blinks. "The what now?"

"Bonaccorsi," I repeat, my patience thinning. "Italian mafia. Their HQ is in the building right across from the one we've been trying to buy." I unfold my plans in my mind: the maps, the schemes, all of it. "With it, we could've brought the war to them before they even realized what was happening. It would've been an absolute victory. Now, we've got nothing."

"Right," Petra mutters. "That makes perfect sense. Just one thing: why in the living hell are we picking a fight with the D.C. Italian mafia ?"

"Because their boss took something from me," I snarl. "Something important. And now, he has to pay."

"So this… all of this…" she says. "It was for a personal vendetta all along?"

Her words rub me the wrong way. "Is there a problem?"

"Oh, I don't know," Petra snarks. "How about… you could've fucking told me?! "

"And if I had?" I retort. "Would that have changed the fact that your goals were just as fucking personal? Let's not be hypocrites—we were both in this for ourselves. So get off your high horse and start thinking about how to save this."

"‘Save'?! There's no saving?—"

"Because make no mistake," I roar over her protests, "if I go down, so do you. And don't you ever fucking forget that."

That finally shuts her up.

For a long moment, silence reigns in the room. Then: "What's the first thing that needs fixing?"

"The vory ," I answer immediately. "They've been pushing back against me all this time. Now, my blood's in the water."

"So we can't let them smell weakness," Petra completes for me.

This is the Petra Solovyova I struck an alliance with: cunning, vicious, straight to the point. Above all, practical.

I don't need the screaming fiancé—I need the fierce fucking warrior.

"We should go ahead with the wedding."

I do a double-take. "Come fucking again?"

"Think," Petra urges, calculations all but running in her eyes. "A wedding's a show of strength. Unity. Most of all, it will double your ranks. With that kind of power at your fingertips, the vory won't dare question you. It won't just be about fear—it'll be about respect. You're going to give them the biggest win they've ever seen; why would anyone move against you then?"

I thought she was speaking nonsense. But the more she explains, the more her plan makes sense. Right now, what matters most is buying time. Time to regroup, rethink, react. And our wedding would buy that in spades.

So why do I feel like it's the last thing I want to do?

"It won't work," I hear myself saying. "It's not enough. Besides, we need to actually solve the D.C. problem first."

"No, not enough—but you just said the priority were the vory ," Petra argues. "Isn't D.C. the long game? So why—" Then she stops. "Oh. Oh. You just don't want to do it."

"I don't want to what, Petra?"

"You don't want to get married," she says, stunned. "You've changed your mind, haven't you?"

I open my mouth to deny it. To reject the insinuation with every fiber of my being. I'm a goddamn machine; there is nothing I won't do to achieve my goals.

So why can't I say it?

My mind fills with images: April, rubbing the sleep from her face. April, smiling at me from the kitchen. April, looking up from her plate with a different kind of hunger in her eyes.

April, moaning my name in bed this morning.

I've been telling myself it was about the kid. All along, I've been telling myself that.

And, all along, I've been lying.

Because it stopped being about the kid a long time ago. That child is my family, my blood , but April?—

April's something, too. And I'm tired of pretending she's not.

As if reading my mind, Petra's expression turns horrified. " Blyat' , it's because of her."

"That's nonsense."

"No, it's not. It's the only thing that makes sense. You were perfectly willing to go through with this before, and now, you're not—so what changed?"

"Petra, I'm warning you?—"

"Warn me all you like," she says, still sounding dazed. "She's the only thing that's changed. She changed you. "

I grit my teeth. "Like fuck she did."

"Like fuck she didn't!" Petra yells at last. "Look at you!"

"Petra—"

"You still smell like her !"

"Will you just SHUT THE FUCK UP?!"

Petra reels back as if slapped. It's not the first time I've yelled at her, but it's the first time I've raised my voice like this. The first time I meant it.

And then I follow her gaze towards the door—and I see Yuri and Grisha staring at us.

How long have they been here? I ask myself. How much did they hear?

"Fine," Petra grits, humiliated. "You know what? Fine. Go marry your fucking whore or whatever. I'll do it myself."

"Petra."

"I've always done it on my own!" she bursts out, too far gone for a dignified exit. "I've always had to pave my own way, so what's new? I'll make vor on my terms. I'll do it all by my own damn self."

And she storms out.

I know I should try to stop her. It would be the smart thing to do. But those words— go marry your fucking whore —are still ringing in my ears, making my hand twitch for my gun.

So I don't stop her.

I watch my last hope go charging out the door… and I don't say a thing.