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26. Matvey

26

MATVEY

When I step back into the penthouse, I'm greeted by a shocking sight: Petra Solovyova, holding an actual baby. Specifically, my baby.

"Oh," she deadpans. "Look what the pirate cat dragged in."

Speak of the devil. After this afternoon's accusations, seeing her here feels like talking shit behind someone's back just to watch them pop up around the corner. Not that I give a damn.

"Petra," I greet back with a matching degree of enthusiasm. "Is there a reason you're holding my daughter like you're trying to find the perfect spot to pin her up on the wall?"

"Well, she is the picture of grace." She wrinkles her nose. "And… other things."

"Don't tell me you're scared of a dirty diaper."

"‘Scared' is a strong word. Let's just say I'm not a fan."

"Like you're not a fan of spiders?"

"Eight legs and not a single pair of Louboutins?" she scoffs. "Right, like I'd ever trust that. Here, hold this."

"This" turns out to be my infant daughter. I tuck May into my arms and raise a skeptical eyebrow. "Skipping class? That's unlike you."

"I'm sure my nannies will have plenty of practice."

The second she sees me, May lights up like a tiny Christmas tree. If I ever needed an incentive to find the mole, one look at my girl would do it. They say Helen of Troy's face launched a thousand ships—now, I finally know how that's possible.

For this little face right here, I would launch a thousand more.

"Where's April?"

Petra jerks her head towards the master bathroom. "Taking a foam bath. Doctor's orders."

"A real doctor's or yours?"

"I don't see the difference."

My eyes wander back towards the bathroom door. I swallow the lump of worry in my throat and force out, "Is she…?"

"Alive?"

"I was going to say ‘okay.'"

"Mm. I can say yes to one of them. The other, I'm not so sure."

And if that isn't reassuring… I try to curb my worry, but all it does is grow stronger. It seems to be the theme with April: anything I try to feel less of, I just end up feeling more.

I motion for Petra to follow me into the balcony. The walls may be thick here, but they certainly aren't soundproof. "I asked Grisha to keep an eye on her."

"Great job he's gonna do from outside the door," she drawls.

"I'd ask the same of you."

On the scale of hardest things I've ever done, this probably takes the cake: asking Petra Solovyova to help. Technically, I'm her pakhan —I could just order her to do this. I don't owe anyone a request, let alone a polite one.

But this is my failing. My responsibility. And I'm not going to push it on anybody else.

Petra's eyes crinkle with amusement. "Should I pinch myself? The great Matvey Groza, asking me for a favor ? Wonders never cease."

I should've known she wasn't going to make this easy. "I'm not asking for free. I'll…" I scrunch up my face in disgust, feeling like I've just swallowed a fly and all its little winged family. Fuck, is this what humility tastes like? "… owe you."

"Hold up, let me record this. I'm gonna play it at your kid's eighteenth birthday party."

"Just cut the shit and say you'll do it."

She crosses her arms. "And why would I?"

It's the worst bluff she's ever pulled. "Because I know you care for her, too."

I watch her hesitate. It's always like this when her mask starts showing its cracks: you get a glimpse of the Petra beneath. Not the assassin, but the human. The raw, bleeding heart.

"In that case, I want something in return now."

I raise a skeptical eyebrow. "Not gonna wait until the worst possible moment to spring it on me?"

"That would be the smart thing, wouldn't it?" She sighs. "A year ago, I wouldn't even have questioned it. Do you ever wonder what happened? To make us dumb like this?"

"No."

"Because you already know?"

I don't reply. I have no desire to inflate her ego any more tonight, certainly not by telling her that she's right. That the four-letter creature that dulled her senses is the same beast that came after mine.

As if reading my mind, she finally speaks. "Yuri."

"Excuse me?"

"That's my favor. I want you to lay off your brother for a while."

I frown. " That's your ask? You want time off to honeymoon in Bora Bora?"

She shakes her head with a laugh. But there's a bitterness to it, like a piece of sweet candy gone sour. "I'm not talking about vacation days—though it certainly wouldn't hurt. I'm asking you to go easier on him. Lately, he's been… in a darker place than most."

For some reason, her words irk me. "Right, and you know this because…?"

"Because I have eyes, Matvey. That look you've been seeing on April's face? I've been seeing it on Yuri's every night since your fight." Her stare grows more distant, lost in the Manhattan skyline. "Maybe even before then."

"You talk as if I'm the monster in this story."

She shakes her head once. "Not a monster, no. But it still takes a toll."

"What does?"

"Loving you."

If this had been a week earlier, I would've torn into her. Denied, denied, denied, until my last furious breath. But that was then. Now, it's all I can do to put up half a fight.

"He betrayed me, Petra. He lied to me. He?—"

"Don't you get tired?"

I blink. "Of what?"

"Of holding a grudge against the whole world."

For the first time in a long time, I'm stunned into silence.

I might've stood there forever if something didn't interrupt. "Matvey?"

The sound of that third voice turns both our heads. "April."

"I thought that was you. I heard…" She shakes her head. "Sorry. I didn't realize it had gotten so late."

"Nonsense." Petra smiles. "Did you follow the doctor's orders?"

"Yeah. Thanks for the advice." She turns to me. "Did you know Petra has a PhD in History?"

"No, she doesn?—"

"Alright then!" Petra claps her hands loudly. "I'll be on my merry way. Get some sleep. Don't do anything I wouldn't approve of."

"Like going to church?"

"Always a riot to chat with you, husband." She gives April a small squeeze on the shoulder. "See you for alterations."

Then she sashays out the door.

Silence fills the empty space. April makes herself small by my side. Her eyes start wandering around the dark balcony, as if not knowing where to look.

"So, alterations?" I ask.

She nods reluctantly. "Petra's been helping me with a dress. It's for…" She shakes her head. "Forget it. It's nothing important."

She starts heading back in, but I stop her, my hand on hers. "April. Tell me what it's for."

"Why?"

"Because I want to know."

Because I want to learn everything I've spent my time trying not to see. Everything that makes you you.

Everything that makes me lo ? —

"It's just this contest. I won't win, so don't worry. Actually, I'm not even sure I'll turn in a piece after all."

"Show me."

April blinks. In the moonlight, her skin looks grayscale, almost like a statue. The kind of marble that can be made to look soft, but only after years of painstaking work. One stroke of the chisel at a time.

"Okay," she says finally. Then she leads me to a mannequin. Her fingers hesitate over the drape. "It's unfinished."

"I know."

"There's still much to do."

"April. Just show me."

The drape comes down.

I'm not an appreciator of fine arts. Frankly, I never had the time. And fashion—I don't understand it at all. I just buy whatever's expensive enough, anonymous enough, to get me through a day of pretending to be someone I'm not: a respectable CEO, a self-made billionaire. Sheep's clothing for the wolf within.

But even I can't ignore this. "It's…"

"It's bad, right?" She shakes her head. "You've probably seen hundreds of dresses that look like this. I don't know what I was thinking, I'll?—"

" April ."

I put one hand on her shoulder, the other arm still cradling May. Like this, it's even clearer: she's ours. It's in her jet-black curly hair, in the line of her nose and the shape of her chin, in dark freckles and snow-blue eyes. Pieces of me and pieces of April, sewn together into something new.

April looks up at me, lost. "Yes?"

"I've never seen a dress like this before."

It's the truth. I say it plainly, without the awe it deserves, but I do say it. I'm too much of a heathen to sing praises—to even understand what praises should be sung. And it's never been my style to flatter, anyway.

But lately, I've been leaving too many of the right things unsaid. And I'm tired of only saying the wrong ones. I'm?—

Aren't you tired of holding a grudge against the whole world?

Yes, Petra. Yes, I fucking am.

April smiles in response. But it's a smile that doesn't reach her eyes, too weak to go anywhere. "Thanks."

I try to kiss her, but she slips by. Like a ghost, or water, or a midnight mix of both.

All throughout dinner, she doesn't glance at May once.

"Sir?"

I keep seeing it in my mind: April's weak smile, her empty eyes.

"Sir…?"

It's worse than a gaping wound; worse than a bleeding bullet hole. At least then, I'd know how to handle it. But how do I handle this ?

" Pakhan , are you listening…?"

How do I handle an evil I can't see?

"Matvey."

How do I fix it if I don't know where it's broken?

" Motya— "

Where I broke it?

"Maybe we should adjourn?—"

"No. Enough."

I snap back to the present to the screech of a chair against the floor. That's right. I was in a meeting.

"Ivan," I say coldly.

Ivan's face is set, a mask of barely-concealed fury. "You've been neglecting your duties for far too long, Matvey."

I grit my teeth. "Have I now?"

"Yes. You're absent, distracted, and your priorities clearly lie elsewhere. I won't stand for it anymore."

All around the table, people start murmuring. My vory —and Vlad's, too. All finally turned against me. Just like everyone warned me would happen.

"Matvey Groza…" Ivan rumbles. "In the name of the code of honor, I challenge you to a duel."

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