23. Matvey

23

MATVEY

I come home to an unexpected noise: crying.

It shouldn't be that unexpected. With a baby at home, silence should be rarer, but May's something else—and I'm not saying that just because she's mine.

In all the time I've known her, I've never seen her cry without reason. If she's tired, she sleeps; if she's hungry, she sends the cat to get us; if she's dirty, she makes a disgruntled noise I've only ever heard come from geriatric pugs. The one time she burst into tears out of nowhere was back at my apartment, when I was having a shouting match with her mother.

Her mother. That's a different story.

I've fallen back into old, bad habits: the second I see her, I can't keep my hands to myself. Goddamn vixen has sunk her claws back into me, shredding my self-control into bloody ribbons. It's fucking Pavlovian—the second I ride up in that elevator, my cock starts throbbing like it's about to explode.

But tonight, something's different. Tonight, no claws greet me at the door.

"April."

No answer.

I make my way across the empty living room and follow the noise. Could the baby be sick? My protective instincts flare all at once, phone already in my hand to drag the doctor out of her office and through that door within the next five minutes.

But when I get to the bedroom, I realize my mistake: it wasn't May crying after all. She's safely in her crib, sound asleep, her little chest rising and falling and her tiny hands curled tightly around her blanket. No sign of the annoying security cat, either.

But on the bed, under a shaking mountain of blankets and pillows, something's still crying. "April…?"

April's head emerges from the nest. She seems startled to see me, like she hadn't even heard me come in. Judging by the darkness in the room, she must've been like this for a while, enough not to notice the sun setting.

"Go away," she sniffles.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me. Go away."

"Last time I checked, this was still my place. Not yours."

She mutters something unintelligible in return.

"If you want me to catch that, you'll have to at least come up for air."

"I said, of course it's not mine!" she snaps. "Nothing is ever mine, is it? Not my future, not my life, not even my baby. There's always someone else in line."

"Your bab—what the hell are you talking about?"

"Forget it. You wouldn't understand."

"And what exactly am I supposed to understand?"

"I said, forget it," she mumbles. "Stay or leave; I don't care. Just don't bother me."

Then she burrows back into her fortress. I spot her accursed cat peeking from her arms, his one-eyed glare grumpier than ever. Go away , he seems to echo.

I could. I should. Whatever's going on here, it clearly has nothing to do with me. This woman took my kid from me and threw me away like I was nothing—why should I give a shit about her feelings?

Why should I give a shit about her ?

Except you do.

"Get up."

"No."

"I said, get up."

"Why? So you can put me in a chair across from you and play house with a bunch of food I won't touch?"

" April —"

"So you can tell me what a horrible mother I am, too?!"

"SO I CAN MAKE SURE YOU'RE OKAY, GODDAMMIT!"

The outburst shocks her. That makes two of us.

"Get up," I repeat for the third time, my voice a weary, hollow husk of itself. "Get out of bed right now and let me look at you."

"… Why?" she murmurs back.

"Because I say so."

"But—"

"Now, April."

Slowly, something emerges from the covers. Like a broken butterfly from a cocoon, April comes to stand in front of me: unsteady legs, smeared makeup, puffy eyes a thousand shades of red. "Happy now?"

"Happy " is a universe away: I'm beside myself with fury. "Tell me who did this to you."

She rolls her eyes. "What does it matter?"

"It matters to me."

"Yeah, right."

I cross the distance between us in one long stride. "Tell me who's responsible for this, or I swear to God I'll find out myself. And then you won't get a say in what happens to them."

The threat at least is effective. Without a word, April snatches something from the bedside table and shoves it in my hands. "Here."

Then she drops back down on the bed.

Frowning, I unfold the crumpled piece of paper. It's almost too dark to see, and the pretentious cursive in which it's written doesn't make it any easier, but in the end, I manage to make out the words.

You are hereby invited for afternoon tea at the Flowers Mansion,

13 West 10th Street. Time and details on the back.

"This…" I stare at the letter in my hands. The Flowers Mansion. That must be…

"Dominic sent it," April explains. "Around a week ago. He wanted to see the baby."

A week. She's been holding on to this for a week, without breathing a single word to me about it. Another fucking lie for the pile. "And you brought her?!"

Anger bubbles back up into my throat, ready to be shouted: how dare she take my child anywhere without my permission again? What was she thinking? Why?

But then I see her.

I've never witnessed anything like this: April Flowers, drained of all life. Her hazel eyes find mine, exhausted, and she rasps, "He was my father. What choice did I have?"

He was my father. "Was"—past tense. Either something happened to the old bastard, or he did something himself.

Something that made even April cut him off for good.

And suddenly, it's like I've got a knife lodged between my ribs, cutting deeper and deeper with every breath. It's all I can think about: April and the baby, defenseless in a den of wolves, without a single soul to protect them. Without me.

"You went alone?"

"Grisha drove me."

"That's not what I asked."

"Then use your words, Matvey, because I'm too tired for games."

"You want my words?" I snap. "I'll use my words then: what the fuck were you thinking?"

"I was thinking I was going to see my father!" she yells back. "That he wanted to meet his granddaughter, not that he'd try to buy her off of me!"

I freeze. "‘Buy'?"

"He offered me half a million dollars," April explains in a deadened monotone. "In exchange for full custody, if you can believe that."

I'm no stranger to bloodlust. My entire life is a quest for revenge, the bloodier the better. But right now, if I had Carmine and Dominic standing at opposite sides of the room and only one bullet, I'm not certain which one I'd shoot. All I know is where I'd aim: straight in the fucking crotch.

But there's another, more pressing question in my mind. One that's got nothing to do with hypotheticals and everything to do with the woman in front of me.

"What did you answer?"

April's eyes widen. "What?"

"Don't make me repeat myself. What did you fucking answer?"

It's like a switch has been flipped. One second, April's a shell of her former self, barely able to stand on her own two legs. And the next?—

The next, she's fury incarnate.

"What did I answer?" she balks. "What did I fucking answer? You're really asking me that?"

I set my jaw. "You're evading the question."

"I'm—" She opens and closes her mouth like a goldfish, but it doesn't last long. The moment she gets her bearings, she springs up from the bed, crowding me against the wall. "I'm evading the question?!"

"If you won't answer, then?—"

"NO, you asshole!" she shouts. "No, I didn't fucking sell my baby to a psychopath! But thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Oh, you want a vote of confidence now? Like I can trust you? Please. After everything you've done?—"

The crack of her slap echoes in the room. I feel a tingle spread from my cheek. It's nothing more than that; my face hasn't even turned.

But April's face is red. And now, her hand is red, too.

"Everything I've done has been to protect her," she hisses. "Every step, every decision, every mistake. Everything I've sacrificed, I've sacrificed for her. And you're asking me if I would sell her? If I would get rid of her for a goddamn check ?!"

"Then why didn't you tell me?!" I snarl back. "We could've gone together! We could've?—"

"I fucking tried, you asshole!"

Suddenly, my words fail me. It's like the entire world has shifted on its axis, sending me ass-first into the concrete.

Because suddenly, I remember.

Something came in the mail for me today. An invitation.

She did tell me. She tried.

She tried, and I didn't listen.

It's humbling to say the least—being literally slapped in the face with your own worst mistakes. Realizing all at once you've been doing everything wrong, without a single chance for denial. "Apr?—"

"Don't," she chokes out. "Don't you fucking dare apologize now. Not after what you said to me."

"April."

"I said, don't?—"

"I'm sorry."

That annoying voice in my head—the one I bricked away in the ugliest corner of my mind—it's roaring now. Breaking out of its cage like a starving animal.

Because that's what I've been: a beast. Nothing but a miserable fucking beast.

"I'm sorry," I repeat, pulling her against me.

At first, she struggles. Her entire frame trembles as she fights me with the last of her strength. Then, finally, I feel her slump against my chest, a puppet with her strings cut.

"I hate you," she whispers.

"I deserve it."

"You weren't there for me. You're never there for me."

"I know."

"You never listen to me. Never."

It cuts so deep, I almost want to laugh. Because that's just it, isn't it? We never listen to each other. It's a vicious, rotten cycle, and we're still feeding it now.

I spent so long hating April for what she did to me. Not just for taking the baby or leaving, but for not giving me a chance in the first place. For not letting me explain.

When I tried, she threw my words back at me. But this past week, when she tried to tell me something important—what did I do? What did I do, if not the exact same thing?

"I'm sorry," I tell her again, even though it's hard. Even though a part of me still hurts like hell at the thought of that nightmarish month without my daughter. That wound has never stopped aching, but April's cut is fresher. And it's bleeding right now, in front of my eyes.

I can stop it. I have the power.

"I had to name-drop you," she cries harder against me. "You weren't there, so I had to pretend you were— I had to tell them you?—"

The more I listen, the more one thought pushes its way to the forefront of my mind: I want to kill Dominic Flowers . I want to lay waste to his perfect little house and gut his perfect little pigs until they're nothing more than pieces of rotting meat. I want to pry their apologies out of them with a rusty set of pliers and then leave them there to suffer. To leave them like they left her.

But for once, I'm lucid enough to realize one thing: That won't help anyone. That won't break the cycle.

"You did the right thing," I murmur instead, lips pressed to the top of her head.

She scoffs. "You didn't even know what I said."

"I don't care. You protected her." You protected both of you.

"He told me I'm not fit to be a mother." She breaks down into sobs. "And Nora, and Anne, too—they all think that."

"Don't listen to them," I spit. "They have no idea what a good parent is supposed to look like."

"But you think that same thing," she sniffles. "You've told me. You do."

I hold her tighter. "No, April, I don't."

"Liar."

"I really don't."

"Liar, liar, liar ? — "

Slowly, I tip her head up and start kissing her tears away. It's nothing like the passion of the past few days.

This time, it's softer.

This time, it's gentler.

This time, it's real.