13. Matvey

13

MATVEY

One more thing about being pakhan : you have to be ready for everything.

It's a simple matter of survival. The quickest to prepare, adjust, predict—that's who comes out on top. It's true in the animal kingdom, and it's true for us, too.

After all, what's a man if not simply another kind of beast?

I wasn't ready to face Carmine, and it almost cost me everything. I wasn't ready for today's ambush, and I almost lost control of my Bratva.

But there's something else I'm unprepared for, and it's seeing April again.

No, not just seeing her—but having dinner with her. Like we used to do when we still meant something to each other.

You still can , whispers the voice of my own wretched weakness. You still do.

I rip its throat out and silence it.

I know that won't last forever. That ugly part of me has a tendency of roaring back to life when I least want it around, but it takes time. Time I can use to get my head on straight.

Time I can use to forget her.

You don't have to forget her , that hateful voice keeps hissing. You can fix things. You can try again. You can apologi ? —

On the elevator ride up to the penthouse, I kill my weakness over and over again. Because if there's one thing I'll never do, it's apologize to the woman who took my daughter from me. April betrayed me. Worse than that, she betrayed her own blood. That's unforgivable.

What about your lies? that voice still goads. What about your betrayal? Are those forgivable?

Then I step in and find something else I wasn't prepared for.

" Meow. "

A goddamn cat.

"I see you've met Mr. Buttons," April acknowledges coolly.

"Mr. Buttons," I deadpan, staring at the offensive orange creature giving me the stink-eye from my carpet.

"That's right. June brought him back for me."

I vaguely remember this topic coming up when April first moved here. Back then, I blew her off with some bullshit about the hotel's pet policy. I was under the impression that she'd pop the baby out in a matter of days, we'd work out a living arrangement somewhere else, and that would be it.

I didn't think I was actually going to have to deal with the fucker.

"I see. How… hygienic."

As if on cue, the fluffy menace jumps into the crib. I watch him with disgust as he curls around my daughter's sleeping form and wraps his tail around her foot. Like he's setting up a fucking tripwire or something.

April blows me off with a wave. "Oh, please. He's up to date with all his shots. Besides, he's an excellent baby monitor."

"The geriatric cat with the eyepatch works security?" I frown.

"Hey! He wears it very well."

For a brief second, it feels just like old times: the jokes, the banter, the chemistry. Coming home to new shenanigans every day.

And then I remember: She took my kid. She ran away. She betrayed me.

It seems like April remembers, too, the same moment I do. She clears her throat, face clouding over. "Did you want something?"

I set my jaw. "As a matter of fact, yes."

Then I open the door and let in the food cart.

We watch in tense silence as a jittery waiter sets the table. It must be the most uncomfortable minute of his career, but frankly, I don't care. I pay my employees well enough—the least they can do is their fucking jobs.

He does. "Enjoy your dinner, sir, ma'am."

April gives a tight nod of acknowledgement.

Then we're alone again.

Well, not alone exactly. May is still snoozing in her crib, the cat curled up around her like a dragon with his treasure. Only, it's not his treasure.

It's mine.

"So you're still set on this?" April asks eventually. "Family dinner?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

I take my place at the table. "Sit."

"Matvey—"

"I said sit. "

After a beat, she obeys.

We dine in silence. I watch her push the food around on her plate, but I don't have a good excuse to force her to eat. After all, she's not carrying my child anymore.

She could still do that , that annoying voice whispers. She could carry all your children if you'd just ? —

"Are you going to stay here?" April breaks the silence. "At the penthouse?"

Like I'd ever let you out of my sight again. "Someone has to make sure our daughter doesn't disappear into thin air."

"I thought that's what the guards were for."

"The guards are there to protect her against Carmine."

"And you're here to protect her from me?" she fills in bitterly.

"Your words, not mine." I take in the hurt on her face. I try to pretend it doesn't touch me.

I fail.

After our torture of a meal, I pick up the baby from the crib, dodging a swipe from April's hellspawn of a cat. By contrast, May is pliant like a doll, only cooing in protest for a second before I place her against my chest, trading warmth for warmth.

When I go to put her back, my shoulder smarts with pain.

I head to the guest room. "Going to bed already?" April asks me.

See? She can't get rid of you fast enough.

"Yeah. Goodnight."

"Wait."

When I turn, April's face is a mask of concern. For a second, I'm stunned. "What?"

"Let me check your stitches first," she requests. "You haven't let anyone else see, have you?"

Something thick settles in my throat. Something dangerously close to a lump. "I'm fine."

"Please," she insists. "Just one look. I promise I'll be quick."

"So you can slip me a sedative and run?"

"So I can make sure our daughter still has a father in the morning, actually."

Her words catch me off-guard. Her eyes, shining with that familiar fire. "Fine." I drop back onto the couch.

April gathers her supplies and perches next to me. This time, she has a proper first-aid kit. "No whiskey?" I ask.

"Your liquor cabinet's locked."

I frown. "Since when?"

"Since Grisha locked it," she answers. "Didn't you order him to do that?"

I roll my eyes internally. Goddamn Grisha. "Must've forgotten," I mutter.

April starts to pull on my collar, then seems to think better of it. Her fingers brush my skin as they retreat, warm like embers. "Take off your shirt," she whispers in a choked voice.

The sensation lingers. I swallow around it, unbuttoning my shirt with careless movements. I don't care if it hurts—I want to get it over quickly.

No, I need to.

Once that part's done, April's hand comes back, fingertips ghosting over my skin. "Sit still," she murmurs, voice lower than before.

"Just get it over with."

She gives a small nod. "Alright."

Her touches are soft, measured. She follows the wound carefully, cleaning away the dirt, warding off the rot. I can't believe I'm letting her do this again—getting close to the most vulnerable parts of me.

But a pakhan can't afford to be vulnerable. Nor can he afford to fall back into the waiting arms of the siren who almost got him killed.

"So, Carmine…" She hesitates. "He's your dad?"

"He's not my anything. I just share his genes, that's all."

"That's ironic," she observes. "All you do is go on about ‘blood this, blood that,' and now, it's just genes?"

"Family doesn't betray each other," I cut short. "Never."

April takes the blow. She accepts it gracefully, like she's always accepted everything: my moods, my orders, my desires.

Everything but your lies , that horrible voice whispers.

I shake it off. Whatever it has to say, I don't want to hear it. "What's it to you?" I demand.

She looses a pensive sigh. "Aside from the fact that it's just nice to know? It's…" She fumbles for words. "I don't know—weird? I never pegged you for half-Italian."

"I'm Russian," I growl back. "Whatever Carmine is has nothing to do with me."

"Good."

I frown. "‘Good'?"

"Well, I always did like pineapple on pizza."

For a split second, I almost lose control of my face and smile.

Get it together. Remember who she is. "Hm."

"How d'you end up with an Italian mafia boss dad—sorry, gene-lender—anyway?"

"Aside from the fact that my mother had terrible taste in men?"

"Yeah, aside from that."

I take a moment to think. Not about what to say, but whether I actually want to say it. April doesn't deserve my confessions—not after how she treated my last one.

But this isn't just about me. This concerns May's roots as well as mine.

And she's her daughter, too.

"His father wasn't particularly good at playing the mafia game. He got in a turf war with a rival family and lost. Instead of staying and fighting, Carmine joined the army and fled."

"Fled to Russia?"

"Bosnia, actually. He was deployed there first. Lasted a couple of months and then…" I grit my teeth. "Then the fucker deserted. Again . "

"Seems like a real lionheart," she drawls.

You don't have to tell me that. "He spent the next few weeks on the run. Landed himself across the Russian border. My mom found him starving in the snow and took him in. Within a year, I was born."

"That…" April hesitates. "That doesn't sound like the start of a tragedy. It sounds…"

"Romantic?" I scoff. "Yeah, that's what my mom thought, too. But he wasn't the type to settle down. Or stay on the straight and narrow."

"Well, that's not you, either."

"No," I concede. "That's not me, either."

A long moment ticks by in silence. I almost managed to forget about April's hands on me, but now, it hits me twice as hard: her warmth, her scent, her everything.

"Alright. That's enough," I growl.

"Almost done. Just patching up."

Every touch, every breath—it's torture, pure and simple. I can feel her fingers working over my skin, her labored huffs breaking against my neck. Her knees, parted on either side of my back.

It would be so easy to turn our positions around. To nestle between those warm thighs until all I can feel is her . Until I can't fucking breathe. Until I'm where I belong.

Without warning, I lurch to standing. "I said that's enough ."

April manages to tamp down the last corner of the gauze just before I'm out of reach. "Matvey?" she calls to me. "Wait—did I say something wrong?"

"I just need to sleep."

"Matvey, did I hurt you?"

More than you'll ever know.