8. Matvey

8

MATVEY

"‘ Baby' ?!"

"Wait, how are you supposed to know?—"

"—something's not right here?—"

"Motya, what the?—"

I slam my palms on the table. "I asked for a status update, not a fucking press conference." I force myself to take a long, deep breath. It's either that or someone's going to eat lead before the day's done. "Grisha. You go first."

For once, Yuri doesn't argue.

Grisha clears his throat. "It's hell out there, boss. The only reason people aren't shooting is because Ms. Solovyova threatened to shove their guns up?—"

"I can imagine," I cut in. "How is Petra?"

This time, it's Yuri who answers. "She's upset, brother. She stormed out of the terrace with her bodyguards a minute ago. Her father's still there, settling the men."

I have about as much faith in Vlad's ability to settle his men as I do in the damn Tooth Fairy. "Alright. Grisha, you go back up there. Get our men in line, then tell Vlad the wedding's postponed. The Solovyovs threw the first punch, so make it look like it's his fault we can't move forward today."

Grisha smirks under his mustache. "Will do, boss."

"Yuri," I say, turning to my brother, "you'll stay here."

"But—"

"Guard her with your life," I tell him, stressing how important this is. If that baby's truly mine, I can't entrust this to anybody else. "Got it?"

He swallows. "Got it."

"Good." I start heading towards the exit with Grisha. "I'll look for Petra. We meet back here in fifteen."

I spare April one last glance. Like this, with her hazel eyes staring at the floor and her whole body pressed against the arm of the couch, she doesn't look like the spitfire tailor I was sparring with only minutes ago. If anything, she looks like she's trying to make herself as small as possible. To hide .

But there's no hiding the obvious bump under her flowy maternity dress, nor the precious cargo it carries.

I don't want to leave. But I have to.

"Stick with Yuri," I tell her. "He'll keep you safe."

"I can keep myself safe!" she argues—but it's weak. Exhausted. Like it's taking all of her strength to just stay upright.

She was kidnapped. She escaped. She ran all the way here.

"You asked for my protection," I say, with a tone that brooks no argument. "So let me protect you."

This time, April doesn't say anything.

I force myself to tear my gaze away from her belly. Then, my mind bursting with everything I still need to do to salvage this shitshow, I finally stride out the door.

"Wait!"

"What, Yuri?"

I turn. My brother's there, halfway out the door, with a look in his eyes I know all too well. "I can help."

"Is this about your pissing contest with Grisha?" I sigh, starting to feel beyond irritated. "Because if that's the case?—"

"It's about Petra."

I stop walking. "What about Petra?"

"She was upset, Motya." Yuri doesn't meet my gaze as he speaks. "Will she even talk to you?"

"Of course she will," I answer without missing a beat. "We were supposed to be married by now. If she won't talk to me, who else is left?"

"I…" Yuri hesitates. "I can help."

I massage the bridge of my nose, feeling a headache coming on. Good intentions, road to hell, et cetera. "You are helping, brother," I insist. "By staying here. Where I need you most."

"But—"

I walk up to him, squeezing his shoulders with both my hands. Grounding him. I don't know what's got him so out of sorts, but I need him to snap out of it, and fast.

If I can't rely on Yuri, I can't rely on anyone.

"You don't have to keep competing with Grisha for top spot, Yuri. You're my second." I stare him right in the eye, hoping my words will finally get through his thick, thick skull. "You're my blood. No one else can say that. No one in the whole world. Do you understand?"

No one , a voice inside me whispers, except ? —

"I understand," Yuri finally gives in. "But I can do more if you need me to. That's all."

An idea comes to mind then. If more responsibility's what Yuri wants, then I have just the task. "Tell you what," I say, pulling out the crumpled sheet of paper I was handed earlier. "If you want to help, you can help. With this."

He scans the document. "A paternity test?"

"I want a new one." Without hesitating, I yank a few strands of hair off my scalp. It doesn't even sting. After Siberia, anything short of a bullet feels like a hot stone massage. "Feel free to forge my signature on the consent form. Apparently, that's commonplace now."

Yuri frowns, but doesn't say anything. As my second, he's done far worse than commit some light forgery. "You think she's lying?"

"I think we have no reason to believe her," I answer coldly, ignoring how wrong the words feel in my mouth. "She's a stranger, after all."

Not a complete stranger , a part of me points out, reminding me of all the ways we got intimately acquainted with each other.

But that's neither here nor there.

"What about the baby's DNA to match against?" Yuri asks.

"The data's already in the system, so?—"

That's when I realize something. Something I should have realized a conversation ago. The test, the kidnapping—what if it's all connected? What if this piece of paper is the key to all of it?

How could they know about my baby, when even I didn't?

"Actually, forget consent forms," I backtrack. "I want this done discreetly. Under the radar. Bribe someone at this hospital, get the records, match against that. Got it?"

After a moment of consideration, Yuri nods. "Got it."

I squeeze his shoulders harder. Not enough to hurt—but enough to make him understand . "This is important, Yuri. I can trust no one else to do it for me. Just like I can trust no one else to look after the woman in that room. Because if she really is carrying my child?—"

"Then that's your blood, too," Yuri completes for me. "Don't worry; I get it."

Good man. " Our blood," I correct him with a smirk. "You'd be the youngest uncle in the family."

"I'd be the only uncle in the family, brother."

"Still."

If anybody else kept second-guessing me like this, my patience would've run out a long time ago. But Yuri's blood. And, aside from that, all he ever wants is to help. I can't punish him for that, can I?

"Matvey…"

"What now?"

He pauses. "Look in the kitchens. You know how Petra gets when she's nervous. She?—"

"Stress-eats," I finish, realization dawning on me. "Thanks, brati?ka. " I grin, patting him on the back. "See? You're plenty of help."

Yuri doesn't say anything to that. Whenever a compliment's thrown his way, he ducks it like a bullet. "Just hurry. The chef might still be alive."

I head to the elevator. The day's still a mess, but maybe I can salvage what matters.

And what matters right now is my alliance.

To Yuri's credit, I find Petra exactly where he said I would.

"Is there any left for me?" I ask, strolling in.

Petra's twin bodyguards, Julia and Lena, give me the evil eye as I pass by them, but I pay them no mind. With their own faces stuffed full of tarts, they don't look half as intimidating as their mistress.

Petra glares at me with bloodshot eyes. "Which do you prefer? Cyanide or arsenic?"

"I'm usually a fan of nightshade."

"I'll see what I can whip up."

I walk around the stainless steel counter. I glance around, realizing I haven't seen Rowan anywhere. "Did your bodyguards eat my chef?"

"You should be asking if I ate your chef."

"Fair." I drum my fingers on the counter. I'm not the type to grovel—that's never really been my style. But even I'm not cruel enough to deny what I just put Petra through. "Look, I… regret how things went down."

"That's not a ‘ sorry ,' asshole."

"I didn't know she was going to do that."

My bride barks out a laugh. "Oh, I believe you. You should have seen the look on your face." She strangles a salmon tart in her fist, nearly squeezing it back into an egg. "Like the Ghost of Christmas Future just showed up with your Nobel Peace Prize."

"Are you saying I'll never win a Nobel Peace Prize?"

"Maybe you will," she sniffles. "After today, you won't have an army anyway. Might as well think of a career change."

Her words sober me up. "It's not all lost, Petra. This is just a setback."

"‘A setback'?" Petra laughs, bitter and cruel. "That's a pregnant fucking woman you've got in your penthouse, Matvey. And yes, I know where you're hiding her. We're not all idiots in here."

The implication makes my blood boil. "You won't touch her."

" You shouldn't have touched her!" Petra all but shouts. "We agreed to this, Matvey! Us!"

I grit my teeth. "A political agreement, I'm sure you'll remember."

"Well, how's this for politics?" my scorned bride-slash-business partner snarls. "My father—who's also the pakhan of the Bratva you're looking to take over, in case you forgot—is never going to let me marry a cheater!"

I pinch the bridge of my nose. I hate Petra's screaming tantrums, but I hate even more when they're justified.

Vlad's a man of tradition. To someone like him, honor matters more than anything. And nothing screams " dishonor" like an out-of-wedlock baby on the way.

"We have no choice," Petra says, pacing up and down in her gigantic skirts. "We have to handle this."

"Petra."

"Maybe it's not yours," she continues, a crazed look of hope in her eyes. "She could be a spy, right? She could be on our enemies' payroll?—"

" Petra. "

My tone forces her to look at me. Like this, all dressed in white and with tear marks on her cheeks, she would make even the most stone-hearted man feel like the worst piece of shit to ever walk the Earth.

Luckily, that's not my case. A heart of stone is still a heart, after all, and I don't have that burden. "She had a paternity test. It's mine."

Petra slumps on the floor like a deflated soufflé. "Then we're done. It's over."

"It's not over." I crouch to her level, forcing her to look me in the eye. To listen, for fucking once. "No one knows about the test. Only me, Yuri, and now, you. And I'm having him run the DNA again to be certain."

"So it could be fake?" Petra blurts out, a glimmer of hope in her eyes.

"It could be… but I don't think it is."

The hope shatters.

"But," I add, offering Petra a handful of tissues, "taking the test will buy us time. Time to convince Vlad to let us move forward."

Petra blows into the tissues. "He'll never buy it."

"He will," I tell her confidently. "Because we'll sell it. We'll sell it like we sold him this," I say, gesturing between us. "And because his baby girl will be there, advocating for her fiancé's honor."

Petra pauses mid-sniffle. "You're dumping this on me, aren't you?"

"Never," I lie. "I'll talk to Vlad, too. I'll sing him your praises and say my hands are tied. Waiting for the test is the honorable thing to do. He won't like it, but he won't say no."

"But you still need me to sell it."

God help me, I do . I nod grimly. "It won't work unless it comes from you first."

Petra seems to mull it over. I can tell she's almost there: she just needs a little push.

"You can consider this your first mission as vor of the Groza Bratva," I add.

"Alright," Petra finally sighs. "I can tell you're fucking with me, but frankly, I don't care."

"Attagirl."

She rises to her feet unsteadily. "What about the pregnant elephant in the room?"

"Let me worry about her."

I start heading towards the door, but Petra's voice stops me. "Matvey."

I turn. "Yeah?"

Her gray gaze is unreadable. "Fatherhood really agrees with you."

"Why would you say that?"

"You're smiling."

I touch my lips. The unfamiliar shape catches me by surprise. Muscles I scarcely ever use are warming up. "That's your fault," I tell Petra. "You've got a cream cheese beard."

As I leave my bride-to-be furiously scrubbing at her chin, I keep checking the corners of my lips. Curved. Upturned.

I'm pregnant. And it's yours.

"A father," I murmur to myself, stepping back into the elevator. "I'm going to be a father."