6. Matvey

6

MATVEY

The suit's a perfect fit.

Of course, I knew that already. I made the trek back to that little shop specifically to make sure of it.

But she wasn't there.

I adjust my tie in the mirror. The sensation of silk on my fingertips brings back memories. It's been nearly a year, but my mind still likes to go there sometimes. That changing room. That scent.

Her.

I pull something out of my pocket: a ribbon, long and sleek, the same color as my tie. A little souvenir I've kept with me since then. If I hold it close, I can still smell her perfume.

I shake my head and huff. Is this what Grisha was warning me about? Pre-wedding jitters?

Nonsense. I'm Matvey Groza. The head of the most powerful Bratva in New York City. I don't get nervous.

Especially when it comes to politics. And make no mistake, that's all this is.

A knock sounds on the door. I turn my head and call, "Come in."

A whistle follows in lieu of a greeting. "Wow. Look at that . Trying to upstage the bride?"

I roll my eyes at her. "If you were afraid of that, you should've picked a better tailor. I can introduce you, if you'd like." It's my best attempt at a joke, even though the mere thought of sharing makes blood rise to my head. "What are you doing here? Don't you know it's bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding?"

My blushing bride doesn't blink, nor does she blush. The day Petra Solovyova gets flustered because of a man, hell will freeze twice over.

She glides to me instead, dressed in white from head to toe. Her fairy tale gown shimmers with every step, catching the light like the diamond-studded hilt of a dagger. Regardless of her jokes, I don't think anybody could upstage her today.

Not that they'd be dumb enough to try.

"Luck doesn't concern us anymore," Petra declares, wrapping her arms around me from behind.

I try not to flinch at the contact. If we're going to sell this, we both need to look like we can stand each other's presence.

Her gray eyes meet mine in the mirror. "Starting today, nothing will stand in our way. Not luck, not fate. Not anyone." She fixes my tie as she talks, and it takes every ounce of my willpower to stop from slapping her hands away.

Don't touch what she touched. It's not meant for you.

Her diamond ring glitters on her hand. Somehow, she makes that look like a weapon, too.

I finally shake her off. "You sound awfully confident."

"As should you," Petra shrugs. "We're here, Matvey. We made it. You don't have to keep waiting for the other shoe to drop."

She's right, in theory. But old habits are hard to break. Until we say, "I do," I'm not leaving anything to chance.

"Soon," she murmurs, drawing close again, "all of our dreams will come true. You'll be pakhan of the strongest Bratva on the East Coast, the combined power of the Groza and Solovyov families at your beck and call. And I…"

"And you'll be vor ," I complete for her. "Just like your daddy never wanted."

A feral grin splits her face in the mirror.

Petra. Ever since we crossed paths two years ago, I knew right away I'd finally met my match. Not in strength or cunning, but hunger. That's what being Bratva is all about: not how much money you can be buried with, or how many cops you've got in your pocket, or how many skyscrapers you can slap your name on.

That's the American dream—it was never ours.

A Bratva is made for one thing: to rule.

Coming here makes it easy to forget that simple truth. I never did, though. Even as my vory , my generals, let themselves grow complacent in the lap of luxury, I kept striving for more.

To accomplish that, I need numbers. Numbers that Petra can provide.

Numbers her father can provide, to be more specific.

Vladimir may have crossed an ocean to make his fortune here, but his heart never left the old Russia. He wanted a husband for his daughter; I wanted the soldiers he'd offer up as dowry.

And Petra? Petra had goals of her own. She wanted more than to be a pretty thing on someone's arm. I was happy to indulge her.

I'm not Vladimir, after all—I don't give a shit what's between someone's legs. I care only how they can contribute to my cause. And if someone brings me an army, man or woman, they have earned a place in my ranks.

Now, if only she would quit touching me.

"Won't you let me kiss you?" she blurts suddenly. Her fingers stroke the line of my jaw.

I push her hand aside. "You can kiss me at the altar."

"And after?" she presses, all but hanging on my tie.

I do my best to smother my irritation. The worst thing I can do is give Petra the satisfaction of seeing me snap. That's what she lives for—getting a rise out of people.

"I don't get it, you know," she muses when I don't answer. "It's not like I'm ugly. Aren't you curious what it would be like? Just once?"

I've wondered the same thing. By all accounts, I should find Petra beautiful. In an objective way, I guess I do. She looks like a statue: sculpted out of marble, perfect in every proportion.

And just as cold and sharp.

"Why are you even asking?" I counter. "We both know you don't like me, either."

Her face tells me I'm right on the money.

Maybe the same reason goes for both of us: we're too alike. Two alphas, gunning for the top. She'd never yield to anybody—and as for me? I prefer women who will yield. Warm, pliable, mine for the taking.

Just like?—

"Fine," she pouts, whirling away. "You're no fun to play with anyway."

"I'm not made to be played with," I snarl with a sudden lash of violence that takes even me by surprise. "So don't try."

Then my gaze falls to my watch.

"You should get back to your suite," I advise. "We wouldn't want your father thinking you're up to something improper."

"Yes, yes, moy pakhan ," Petra teases, hands up in a mocking gesture of innocence. "God forbid, right?"

I watch her retreating back in the mirror. Her hips, swaying with every step. Alpha or not, I should at least be tempted.

So why aren't I?

Without thinking, my hand goes back to my pocket, where the ribbon rests. I blame the fabric: smooth, soft to the touch. Ideal for discharging my kinetic energy. With my mind always running calculations a mile a minute, it's a welcome reprieve. A purely physical thing.

It has nothing to do with the woman who wore it.

"There you are." I turn to the door, following the sound of Grisha's voice. "I was starting to think we had a runaway bride on our hands."

Petra answers with a coquettish laugh. "Oh, I would never. Just making sure my husband doesn't get cold feet."

"I'm not your husband yet."

"See?" she jokes to Grisha. "Can't leave this one alone, I'm telling you."

"I'll make sure he's well looked after," Grisha replies good-humoredly, holding out a hand. "Now come, moya printsessa. "

Petra lets herself be led out. My ever-gallant subordinate throws me a wink over his shoulder.

I roll my eyes.

"Bit insulting, don't you think?" another voice comments snidely from the doorway. Yuri. "Petra's a trusted ally. She wouldn't betray us."

"I know that, Yurochka," Grisha replies amiably. "Just like I know you wouldn't recognize a joke if it bit that dainty little nose of yours."

"Get your hands off —" my brother starts, voice turning nasal mid-sentence.

"Boys," I bark, my patience running thin. "Quit stealing each other's noses and get the fuck to work. Otherwise, I'll shoot them both off."

My second- and third-in-command obediently break it up.

"Unbelievable," Yuri mutters under his breath.

"Let it go," I warn him. "I swear, the second you're in a room together, you both revert to toddlers."

I can see an objection on Yuri's lips, but he seems to think better of it. Good . I'm not in the mood for games today.

"Are you ready?" he asks instead.

I throw one last glance in the mirror. The jacket looks as crisp as it did that day in the shop. Better, even. "As ready as I'll ever be," I sigh.

"And…" Yuri pauses, looking for the right words. "Are you sure about this, brother?"

Am I? "I have to be," I settle on. "We need the Solovyov numbers. Otherwise, it'll take years before we grow big enough to take on…"

I don't say the name. Yuri knows perfectly well who I'm referring to.

"I understand," he says finally. He still looks conflicted, but I choose to ignore it. Brides and grooms probably aren't the only ones who get nerves on days like these. "But…"

"Yura."

He stops.

The nickname always makes him listen. It reminds him of when we were kids—just two orphans stumbling in the snow, learning how to wield a gun to survive.

"It's just a wedding," I say, squeezing both his shoulders. He's so tall, it's hard to remember he's only twenty-two. I used to dwarf him by a whole head: now, it's mere inches. "It's not that big a sacrifice."

"But you don't love her."

"I was never planning to marry for love, brother."

"But—"

" Blood ," I tell him, turning serious, "is the only tie I need. The only tie we can trust . Anything else is fleeting at best. And, at worst, a lie."

I see him swallow, then nod. "I know, Motya ."

"I know you do." With one last pat, I let Yuri go. Then I cross the distance to the door. "Is it time yet?"

"Yeah," Yuri says, checking his watch. "It is."

I grin. One last effort, and everything I've ever wanted will be within my reach. Allies, power, means.

Best of all… revenge.

"Well then," I say with a grin, "lead the way, brother."

I walk up to the altar.

By my side, Yuri takes his spot as best man. I can see Grisha in the crowd, giving me a sneaky thumbs-up.

Then the march starts playing.

As the organ sings, Petra walks in on her father's arm. Decked out like this, in six-inch heels and a tiara that would put any tsaritsa to shame, she makes Vlad look like a garden gnome. Somehow, I get the feeling it's intentional.

With each step she takes, I can feel my dreams closing in. With each word out the priest's mouth, I can feel my ambitions settling in my grasp. With each respective " I do ," I can sense the balance of the world shifting.

When the officiant says, "Speak now or forever hold your peace," I nearly laugh. Who in their right mind would cross us? Who in their right mind would oppose this ?

And then, like lightning striking twice, April Flowers rushes in.

"I'm pregnant," she announces breathlessly, sporting the most gigantic belly I've ever seen. "And it's yours."