5. April

5

APRIL

One thing to be said for the dumb girl who just got herself kidnapped: I don't go down without a fight.

I scream.

I kick.

I scratch.

I bite.

That last part makes my captor scream, which is strangely satisfying. By the time I've got a black bag over my head and cuffs around my wrists, I'm pretty sure I've done more damage to him than he's done to me.

And then I hear him curse.

" Blyat' ," he spits, manhandling me into a corner of the van.

My blood turns to ice.

" Stai bene? " another voice calls from the driver's seat. I'm no linguist, but I'm fairly certain that's an entirely different language than the one my first kidnapper just spoke.

He must realize it a split second after I do, because he quickly corrects himself. "You okay?"

English. That, I can work with. "The bitch just bit me," Shithead #1 growls.

"Hey!" I snap. "Language, asshole."

Not the smartest thing to say. Again: hindsight. Mine is sorely lacking.

Pain sparks across my cheek. A loud crack! echoes through the moving van. "Shut the fuck up, curva. "

For Nugget's sake, I do. Then the man snatches something from my hands.

The paternity test . I didn't realize I was still holding it. I must've done it subconsciously when he grabbed me.

"Like your boss said," Shithead #1 gloats, "it's a match. This is Matvey Groza's kid."

Fuck. I try to calm myself. Deep breaths, April. So this is a mob hit. So what? You've handled worse. Remember Carolina Torres's quincea?era? You saw that cake topple. You can handle this.

"Of course it's a match," Shithead #2 bristles. " My boss doesn't make mistakes. We put a tracker on Groza's records as soon as he crossed the ocean. Your boss could learn a thing or two."

The air is tense. I can tell. Whoever these two are, something tells me they're not from the same circles. That they haven't been working together for long.

Good. I can use that.

For a while, I remain silent. I listen to the sound of asphalt under the wheels: a bump, then two. We're exiting the hospital compound. Any moment now, we'll have to make a turn.

Left , I pray to whoever's listening. Make a left. Take the Expressway. Then, once you're stuck in traffic ? —

They go right.

Sonofabitch.

I slump against my corner. Of course my rotten luck would make an appearance now. Back in school, I used to get teased about it all the time. April Flowers brings May showers , the kids would chant, running around me in a circle under the rain.

Because it would rain, without fail, every time I decided to come on a field trip.

I learned to stay home quickly after that.

But now, I don't have that option. Now, if I ever want to see home again, I need to make my own luck.

I keep track of the route. I've driven to this hospital and back for months: I know every shortcut, every road, every crossing. It doesn't take long before I recognize the bustle of Times Square.

The traffic packs us in. The driver curses. Horns blare all around me, in full NYC rush style.

Now or never, April.

I cough once, twice. Then I cough some more. "Hey," I call, meeker this time. Inoffensive. "Could I have some water?"

"You'll get it once we're there."

"I can't—" I wheeze a bit, just for good measure. "I can't breathe."

For a moment, I'm terrified Shithead #1 simply won't care. He's already slapped me once: how hard can it be to ignore me, too?

But then I hear another voice. The driver. "Just give her a sip, dude. She's pregnant."

"I don't give a fuck what she is."

"The boss needs her whole. Give her some goddamn water."

With a click of his tongue, Shithead #1 relents. "Here," he grumbles, all but shoving me a plastic bottle. "Don't try anything funny."

What am I gonna do, belly bump you like a sumo wrestler? "Thank you," I croak instead, taking the bottle with my cuffed hands.

It takes a couple of tries to get it open. Shithead #1 certainly isn't rushing to help me. Asshole .

If only this bottle were glass.

"Could you…?" I ask, gesturing to the hood over my head. With a sigh, my kidnapper complies.

"Fuck you," I murmur sweetly.

"What's that?"

"Thank you."

He scoffs. "Just be quick about it."

I take slow, deliberate sips. Now that I can finally see him, I realize my captor is nearly as tall as Matvey was. He has to hunch over to avoid bumping his head on the roof with every pothole.

Perfect.

The second he turns, I spill some water between my crossed legs. Discreetly, though. Then, as if nothing happened, I drink the rest of the bottle and crumple it.

"Thanks," I say again, offering it to him. "Sorry, did you want some?"

"It's fine," the man grits, clearly irritated. He moves to take the crumpled bottle from my hands.

That's when I act.

"Ah!" I cry out suddenly, folding on myself. I let the bottle fall, then hunch some more. "God, it hurts!"

"What's happening?" the driver calls, concern in his voice.

"I don't know, man." Shithead #1 is panicking now. "She just started fuckin' screaming!"

"Well, ask her then, dumbass!"

"Oh, God," I sob, making a show of feeling the floor between my legs. "I think—my water's…"

"You piss yourself?" the man frowns, taking a step back in disgust.

"No," I say. "My water broke. I think… I think the baby's coming."

The van screeches to a halt.

Bingo.

"The fuck you doing, man?!" Shithead #1 yells.

"Are you fuckin' serious right now?" Slightly Less Shithead #2 shouts back. "She's about to give birth, dude. We need to turn back!"

"It could be a trick!"

"Please," I babble, wishing I could send footage of this to the Academy. I deserve gold statuettes for the show I'm putting on here. "Is there blood? I can't tell…"

"I don't know," stammers Shithead #1. "It's too dark?—"

"Check," I plead, my final gamble. "Please, check with your hand, I can't do it with the cuffs, I can't?—"

"She's right," the driver calls, seemingly oblivious to the horns blaring all around us. "You need to check for blood. The child could be in danger."

"No way," my kidnapper balks. "No way in hell am I sticking my hand in there!"

"Then let me!" I beg, inwardly cheering.

" Blyat' ," he spits again, fumbling with a set of keys. It's weird, how different it sounds in this context. So unlike the way he'd said it.

The second he leans over to unlock my cuffs, I act.

Pretending to spread my legs in a panic, I kick out. My kitten heel connects with the man's ankle. Hunched over like he is, he goes tumbling down like a tripped giraffe.

"Oh, no!" I yell for the driver's benefit, kicking my kidnapper's fallen gun within my reach. "Are you okay?"

Then, without a moment's hesitation, I slam it into the back of his head.

"What's happening?!"

"Help! I think he hit his head!"

And the Oscar goes to…

" Porca puttana ." With a yank on the hand-brake, the driver gets out of his seat. "Hold on, I'm coming over?—"

I don't hear whatever he says next. By the time he walks around the van, I'm already out.

With my cuffed hands, I rip a cab door open and slip inside.

"Hey!" the passenger calls. "You can't just?—"

"Drive!" I scream—and thank God, the cabbie does.

It takes me a full minute of catching my breath to realize why they'd been so quick to obey. "Oh!" I blink at the gun in my hand. "This—I'm so sorry. It's not mine. I wasn't?—"

"Whatever you say, Miss," the cab driver says, his voice reduced to a squeak.

The man in the backseat next to me is positively pale. "Please, let me go," he stammers. "I have a family."

"I, uhh… Sure."

He flies out of the still-moving car. It's lucky we're driving so slowly—my kidnappers have all but halted traffic in the crossing.

Quickly, I toss the gun out the window.

"I need to go somewhere," I tell the cab driver, who's still staring at me like I've got two heads. Which, I suppose, if you're counting Nugget's?—

"Anywhere," he breathes.

I pull my phone out of my coat pocket. Then I fish something out of the case: a business card.

His business card.

I type his name into my browser. After that wretched afternoon, we haven't had any more contact. I made sure to call in sick at that final fitting. I had no desire to ever see him again.

I can't say I want to now.

But I also don't have a choice.

The man is a social media ghost. For a moment, despair takes hold of me. Maybe I could have the cab drive to the address on the back of the card. Maybe?—

Then I find it: a single picture, posted by the account of the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. Her blond hair is made up in a long tress, her clothes impeccable. Next to her, Matvey Groza stares impassively at the camera, looking as if he just ate a lemon.

And then, on the woman's finger…

A diamond ring.

Caption: I said yes! Save the date: January 15 th , Jupiter Hotel in Manhattan. Ceremony on the terrace at 12:00.

I check the time: 11:48.

"Here," I tell the cab driver, giving him my phone. "Please take me here. Fast."

As the driver takes my word for it, speeding through traffic like I still hold a gun to his head—again, my bad—only one thought haunts my mind.

I'm about to crash a mob wedding.