28. Matvey

28

MATVEY

Grisha's gaze sweeps over the crowd. It feels odd to have a referee for a duel to the death, but the old laws are clear: a neutral party must be present.

Despite being my third, no one would question Grisha's integrity. Beyond Ivan, he's the one with the strongest ties to the original Groza Bratva. After all, his father was Igor Groza's second. That's not something anybody here would take lightly, not even the newest recruits who haven't so much as stepped foot on the eternal snows across the ocean.

Ivan doesn't take it lightly, either. "Thank you for your service, Grisha."

He hasn't even grazed me and already, he's acting as the new pakhan.

"No thanks needed," Grisha replies stiffly. "I serve the Groza Bratva, now and always."

The subtle jab almost makes me laugh. If there's one thing Grisha's never liked, it's brown-nosers.

"Old rules?" I cut in.

Grisha nods. "One dagger each, no armor. Bandages are allowed, but only up to the elbow and the knee. No additional weapons and no shoes."

We take each other in. I don't know if today's Ivan is expecting any dirty tricks, but I learned to fight with honor. If he's still the same man who taught me, he'll fight with honor, too.

But is he? Would the old Ivan have challenged you like this?

Satisfied with our inspection, Grisha continues, "The duel ends when either participant stops breathing."

"Perhaps we should allow our pakhan to tap out," Ivan suggests. "Lately, he's shown a tendency to jump ship when things get bad, hasn't he?"

What the hell is he talking about? "Sounds like you're the one who wants the option," I retort. "Is your back acting up again? Don't worry; I won't stab you there. Someone taught me better than that."

Ivan's jaw sets. "If only."

It's like I'm missing a piece here, but there's no time to find out which one. Ivan made that call for the both of us.

I catch some commotion out of the corner of my eye: on the Solovyov side, someone is elbowing their way to the forefront.

Vlad's eyes and mine go wide at the same time. "Petra!" he cries out. "What are you doing here? This is no place for you."

"No place?" she scoffs. "When my own husband is dueling to the death? Was anyone even intending to tell me or was I supposed to find out from the evening news?"

Which raises a good point— how did she find out?

But no sooner do I ask myself that question than I realize I already know the answer.

Yuri. I swear, if I get out of this alive, I'm gonna kill him.

"Go home, Petra. You don't need to be here for this."

"He's right!" Vlad spits, the surreality of agreeing with me making his beady eyes bulge even more. "You can't be here in your condition!"

"It's a pregnancy, Dad, not scurvy."

"Regardless! A Bratva ring is not meant for women!"

He keeps prattling on, but his daughter ignores him and looks at me instead. "Matvey, please reconsider. Think of your family."

She words it very carefully. To the onlookers, there wouldn't be a doubt left that she's talking about herself and her baby. But we know differently.

"My family will be safe with you," I rasp.

With that, I turn my back on her.

I breathe in once, twice, three times. I feel the weight of the dagger in my hand, the balance of steel and brass. Soon, it will be bathed red. "Any last words?"

Ivan's face darkens. "You should have listened to me."

Then he charges.

I don't have time to think about anything else: not Grisha hopping out of the ring, not Yuri clinging to the ropes like lifelines. Not Petra, one hand on her minuscule baby bump and the other trembling around a throwing knife.

If I let myself get distracted, that's it. I'm dead.

Steel meets steel. We push against each other's guards and end up face-to-face, close enough that we can hear the other breathing. He tries to knee me in the gut, but I keep him at bay.

"What did that mean?" I demand.

"What are you talking about?"

"That I should've listened to you. What did that mean?"

Ivan clicks his tongue. He jumps back, putting distance between us, and I do the same.

Maybe he thinks I'm trying to distract him. I wonder when his opinion of me fell so low—when he started regarding me as this coward I've never been.

It's odd, me being on the defensive. Usually, a fight like this would go the other way—me assaulting, Ivan guarding, waiting for a weak point to exploit.

But he seems to have lost himself. He isn't fighting with his mind—he's fighting with his gut. For some reason, he's angry.

"Enough talking," he hisses, leg swinging forward to trip me up again. "I've said all I needed to you and yours. Time to end this."

He's angry. I can use that.

The next time he charges, I'm ready. I block his blow with my arm, and when his knee tries to crash into my abdomen, I let it.

Then I stab into his thigh with all my might.

Ivan howls. He closes his eyes out of pain, just for a second, and that's when I act: I fling away my dagger and grab his with my bare hands. "Do you apologize?" I snarl. "Do you apologize to my family?"

Ivan's teeth grind together to hold back the pain.

Say yes, I beg him silently. Die with honor. If you won't stay by my side, at least don't die as my enemy.

He spits on the ring once. "Fuck you and your family. Damn you all to hell."

I twist his knife back to face him and plunge it into his chest.

Ivan's body crumples. He falls back on the ring and so do I, tipping forward alongside him, my hand tight around the hilt of his own dagger.

With his last breath, he whispers something into my ear.

Then his eyes glaze over.

I wait for ten seconds. Distantly, I hear Grisha count them off, but it's all drowned out by my heartbeat. Even now, the adrenaline won't stop pumping.

I yank the knife out and stand.

"Clean this up," I tell Grisha. "Yuri, drive me home."

For the longest time, I don't say anything. The car's vibrations flow in and out of me, bringing my racing heart back under control.

"Should I drop you off at the loft or the penthouse?" Yuri asks. "Or I can do both if you want to clean up first?—"

"Carmine."

He freezes. "What?"

"That's what Ivan said to me before he died: ‘Carmine. Carmine is here.' "

"Why would he say that?"

"Because he was the mole."

I watch Yuri's face falter in the rearview mirror. "That's impossible."

"It's not. He had access." Clearly, he had motive, too, but I'll be damned if I know what that is. He said so many things to me, but in the end, none of it made any sense. None but the last. "It was him, Yuri. It was him all along."

Carmine is here. A brag. You might have killed me, but I still let the enemy in.

Yuri doesn't speak right away. Ivan raised him as much as he raised me—he must still be processing the shock.

But eventually, even he has to accept reality. "It was Ivan," he says out loud, as if trying to make himself believe it. "Ivan was the mole."

"Mm." After what feels like eternity, I say, "The penthouse."

"What?"

"You asked where I wanted to go."

He blinks. "Oh… right. Penthouse, then? You're sure?"

"Yes." I've never been more sure of anything. "Bring me there. I want to be with my family."

When I finally step out of the elevator, I'm drained. All I want is to be with them: my woman, my child.

"April?" I call. The apartment is unusually dark, not even a single light on. She's probably asleep.

From memory alone, I make my way to the crib. "Hi. Sorry Daddy's so late today."

May coos, her hands outstretched towards me. She's pushier than usual, demanding a place in my arms. "Alright, alright. Come here, you."

"Meow."

I look down. "I don't have any more arms. Go bother April."

" Mrowwr. "

Great. The security cat's acting weird, too. I go to corral him, but?—

"Get back here," I bark.

But he slips out onto the balcony.

Goddammit. If this mangy cat leaps from fifty floors chasing a butterfly, April will never let me hear the end of it. They say cats have nine lives, but I'm not sure how many this old bastard's got left.

I part the curtains. I step out into the balcony, eyes adjusting to the skyline. "I said get back?—"

And then I see her.

April, sitting on the railing, her feet swinging over nothing.