7. Matvey

7

MATVEY

It happens in slow motion.

That's what it looks like to me, at least. After my wedding-crashing tailor drops her bomb, the terrace goes deadly quiet. For a second, the air is still, like the instant before a shootout.

And then it begins.

The first punch flies from the back rows. Of course it does—that's where the Groza and Solovyov men sit mixed with each other. It was Grisha's brilliant idea: a show of unity.

Right now, "unity" looks like a broken, bloodied nose.

"You!" the Solovyov grunt yells above the crowd. "How dare you insult our printsessa like that?"

"The fuck's wrong with you?!"

"Know your place, salaga. Did you forget who's your new pakhan ?!"

Fists go flying.

So does the furniture.

… and Vlad's very expensive, imported ornaments.

A chair soars above the crowd, landing with a vicious crack on the back of one of my men. The Groza group responds by hurling the entire row back at the offending Solovyovs.

A wooden leg hits the latch on the birdcage. White doves are released, flocking at the wrong angle, diving straight into the brawling guests' faces. Cheeks get scratched; eyes get pecked; feathers scatter everywhere.

I duck under a Fabergé egg screaming toward me like a bullet. It misses my head by a hair and buries itself in the six-tier wedding cake resting at the center of the table.

I can hear Petra's horrified gasp as the cake begins to sway, threatening everyone in the vicinity with a Madagascar vanilla bath. Which is probably the finest thing most of these men have ever bathed with, but still—not exactly the use we had in mind.

Yuri rushes over to save it, but to no avail. The cake swallows him whole.

I turn my eyes to the cause of this whole nightmare as it explodes in every direction around me. There she is: April Flowers, dodging chairs and plucking feathers out of her hair.

"Congratulations, Miss!" one of my men has the gall to yell over the chaos, giving the woman a quick bow of respect as he kicks a Solovyov grunt in the knees.

"Oh, um. Thank you," Ms. Flowers replies, ever-so-politely.

I decide I've had enough of this farce.

I take out my gun and shoot.

As quickly and violently as it began, the brawl halts. The terrace falls silent. My gun, pointed straight at the sky, smokes. No one is looking anywhere else now—anywhere but me.

April Flowers included.

And then a dead dove falls on Petra's white shoes, and my bride screams. Chaos resumes quickly after that.

So much for crowd control. This situation is officially beyond saving.

"Boss," Grisha calls, rushing over to me, "we've got a problem."

"No shit."

"No," he insists, grabbing my elbow. "We've got a problem ."

I follow Grisha's line of sight. On the other side of the altar, flanked by two bodyguards, Vlad the Garden Gnome is making his way to me.

And he doesn't look happy in the least.

" Blyat' ," I curse, holstering my gun and jumping down the altar. On my way down the nave, I mutter to Grisha, "Get this under control."

"I'll do my best, boss."

"Don't do your anything. Just get it done."

Then I stride towards the source of "this," who is now back to dodging chairs and congratulations while skittering around dead birds on the grass.

I make up the ground between us in a few swift strides. When I'm close enough, I snarl, "You're coming with me."

I don't give her a chance to argue. I don't give her a chance to speak . I just grab her hand, hold tight, and run.

Her eyes are huge as she drinks me in. Her throat bobs with a swallow, and I almost bark out a laugh at the ridiculousness of that. She has no problem crashing a five-hundred-person wedding filled with killers and criminals, but she pales now that it's just her and me?

She opens her mouth to speak. I'm ready for anything—an apology, an explanation, an extortion demand. Instead, she mutters dreamily, "It really is a perfect fit…"

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing! It's just, um… the jacket. It suits you really well."

I glance back at the tailor in disbelief. "That's your concern?" I growl. "You just crashed my wedding , and you're wondering if my suit fits?"

I weave through the crowd, dragging her behind me. I can see my men forming a perimeter around us, watching both our backs. I didn't even have to say anything—they just fell in line with their pakhan , no questions asked.

By contrast, I can still hear Vlad barking orders to his disorderly troops at the altar.

"Should've added a pocket square, though," the woman next to me mumbles.

I'm going to kill her.

We get in the elevator. It's not a long ride to the penthouse. In fact, it would've been faster to take the stairs. But I wasn't certain she could do that, what with her?—

Don't look at her belly.

But it's impossible. Every time my gaze darts towards her, that's where it goes. Not her warm, hazel eyes, as wide as a doe's. Not the spray of freckles on her cheeks, so far from innocent.

There .

This miniature hall of mirrors doesn't help. Wherever I turn, there she is: April Flowers, now sporting an enormous baby bump.

My baby.

If she's to be believed, that is.

As if reading my mind, she turns to me. "It is yours," she huffs. "I can prove it."

"Can you?"

It's ridiculous. I've seen pregnant women before. None of them looked like this. She's fucking glowing. Ethereal.

I tear my gaze away and step off the elevator. I don't let go of her hand, though. I doubt she could escape far, but I won't risk it. April Flowers owes me answers.

And, perhaps, something more.

"Of course I can," she snaps. "It's in my left pocket."

She tries to free her still-cuffed hand from my grasp, but I don't let her. Instead, I swipe my key card at the penthouse door, unceremoniously dragging her inside. Only with the door safely shut behind us do I finally let her go. "Speak, then."

She glares at me. "I'll trade you the proof for a pair of bolt cutters."

Un-fucking-believable. "Let me make something very clear, Ms. Flowers: you don't get to negotiate. You just crashed a very important event?—"

"A mob wedding," she completes.

"—and half the people on that terrace want you dead right now. So I'd start talking if I were you."

For a long moment, April Flowers doesn't say anything. Neither do I.

Then, after what feels like an eternity, she holds out her wrists and repeats, "Bolt. Cutters. Then I'll talk."

Exhausted, I walk to the sink. I take out the toolkit and set it on the table. I make sure the bolt cutters are visible, but make no move to get them just yet. "Talk. Then I'll cut you loose."

My feisty tailor doesn't move. So I take out my gun and set that on the table as well.

That seems to get a reaction out of her. "Wow. Class act, aren't you?"

"Yes. And, if I decide to use this, it won't matter whether your hands are free or not. So talk. Now."

Trembling with rage, she stuffs both her cuffed hands into her pocket. Then she fishes out… something . "There. Asshole."

I take the crumpled paper from her. "What's this supposed to be?"

"You can read, can't you?"

I grit my teeth. In my entire life, no one has ever dared speak to me like this. Oddly, I don't hate it.

I scan the document. I quickly realize what it is: a paternity test. "How did you get this?" I ask in disbelief, skimming over the data-filled columns.

"Your jacket," she answers. "You left hair on it. It's inevitable, really. Happens to the best of us."

"And you… swiped it?"

"Yeah." She shrugs. "So, you know… It's either your kid or Mr. Buttons's."

"Who's that?"

"My cat."

I stare at her. "These tests require a consent form."

"Which I handed in."

"How?"

"Your receipt."

I keep staring.

"Don't look at me like that," my tailor-slash-forger says, cuffed hands raised in a show of innocence. "If you don't want your signature forged, next time, order on our website."

I ought to be mad. I ought to be fucking furious. I ought to put this defiant little seamstress in her place and show her what I am, what I've done, what I'm still capable of doing.

But in reality…

I'm impressed.

I keep reading the document. At the end of the second page, after endless gibberish, the only number I can understand stares at me in bold:

99%

I take a moment to collect myself. For a full minute, I do nothing but pore over the document again and again. Nothing but reread that number, as if its meaning could change with one more glance.

But it doesn't.

This child is mine.

"Look," she says, "I'm sorry I crashed your wedding. Believe it or not, I really am. And not just because your bride's family wants to kill me right now." She wrings her bound hands, gaze suddenly low and shy. "I just… didn't have a choice."

I have no reason to believe her. She could be a liar, a spy, both, something else entirely. And yet, for some reason, I do.

"I'm guessing those have something to do with it?" I say, glancing towards the cuffs.

She gives a stiff nod. "I was kidnapped today. One of the guys was Russian, I think. The other—I don't know. But they mentioned you by name."

Just like that, my blood begins to boil. I stride towards Ms. Flowers— April . The mother of my child. I see her flinch: does she think I'd hit her? That I'd ever hurt what's mine?

I bring the bolt cutters to her handcuffs and snip the chain in half. "Grisha will help you with those," I tell her, resisting the suddenly powerful urge to tuck away a stray curl behind her ear. "Later."

I'm furious. Of course I'm furious: April Flowers just single-handedly destroyed months of careful planning. My dreams, which were so close only minutes ago, are already slipping away from my grasp. If I don't handle this the right way, I will lose everything.

And yet, I'm not furious with her now.

I'm furious with whoever thought they could lay a hand on my child and live.

My child—and the mother who carries it.

"How far along are you?" I ask.

April blinks at me, like she wasn't expecting this question. "Thirty-nine weeks."

I frown. "You're due soon."

"Last week, actually," she mutters. "It's—a thing. My family does this. Our babies tend to run late."

Kidnapping a nine-month pregnant woman. When I find the pieces of shit who did this, there won't be a single bone left to bury.

"I swear I'm not making this up," April carries on, panicked. "You can check on the test; it's all in there?—"

"I believe you."

It's the second time I've said that today. It's not a usual thing for me. But nothing about today is usual.

I finally let myself look at her belly. Full, swollen—with my child. I'm going to be a father.

"Matvey!"

Someone bursts in. I make a grab for my gun, pushing April behind my back, ready to defend her against the entire Solovyov Bratva if I have to?—

—and then I see who it is.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "I was about to shoot, you know."

Perhaps I should have. Instead, I'm treated to the sight of my second- and third-in-command elbowing each other to get to me. Yuri's still covered in cake frosting, while Grisha has a long, white feather sticking out of his hair like Yankee fucking Doodle.

"Are you okay, brother? What?—"

"Is everything alright, boss? I thought?—"

"Quiet."

At my command, they both settle down.

"Good," I tell them. "Ms. Flowers, these are Yuri and Grisha. Yuri's my brother. Grisha's my third." I point at each in turn, watching as they each give a stiff nod and stare at me like I've lost my last marble. "Sometimes, they both act like babies. I think they'll make excellent practice for parenthood, so feel free to use them as such."

Behind me, I hear April stifle a snort. She recovers quickly. "Pleasure to meet you," she greets, the picture of perfect courtesy.

Back in customer service mode, no doubt.

"Yuri, Grisha," I continue, "this is Ms. April Flowers. Tailor, signature forger, unrepentant wedding crasher?—"

"Hey!"

"—and the mother of my baby."

Two pairs of eyes widen. I pretend I don't notice.

"Now," I say, cracking my knuckles, "which one of you is gonna give me a status update?"