54. Matvey

54

MATVEY

"You knew."

Grisha doesn't reply right away, just takes a long drag out of his cigarette. "I suspected."

"How long?"

"Since April was taken from the motel." The smoke rises, curling into spirals. "How did he know where to find her? How did he know she was missing at all?"

I clench my fists. Great. So everyone realized something didn't add up—everyone but me. "You should've told me."

"I didn't have any proof. Besides…" His usual poker face morphs into something rare: a smile. "Would you have listened?"

It's the saddest smile I've ever seen.

Goddammit. He's right. I wouldn't have listened at all. One word from Yuri, one denial, and I would've considered the matter closed. Worse, I might've turned my fangs against the one accusing my brother in the first place.

My brother.

If only we were that.

A memory bubbles up: Yuri and I, storming out of Ipatiy's club. No— me storming out, Yuri rushing to catch up at my heels. He was warning me about something, but I didn't want to hear it. That I couldn't alienate the vory just because they weren't blood. That it was wrong of me to treat them as "glorified attack dogs," as I'd so elegantly put it.

He told me, "Even the most loyal dog will bite if backed into a corner."

What did I say in return?

Try as I might, I just can't remember.

"Who's coming?" I ask Grisha instead, determined to put my— Yuri —out of my mind.

"Vlad's men," he replies. "Our vory are gathering at the HQ right now. They want to discuss the implications of moving against Carmine before they lend their support."

"Fucking cowards," I spit. "They're Bratva, not a bunch of shareholders. Why the hell can't they remember that?"

"My guess is they have no one to keep them in line now," Grisha remarks. "Not after…"

Ivan.

"I see."

It's not a good feeling, when your mistakes catch up to you. It's even worse when they do it all at once, one after the other. An avalanche of wrong choices.

If I'm not careful, they will be the dirt on my grave.

"Go to them," I tell Grisha. "Remind them what it means to be Bratva. By any means necessary."

"Do I have the authority to do that?" he asks.

"You do now, brigadir. "

I shake his hand and seal the deal. It's firm, refreshingly real. Grisha's face is lacking any of the joy that usually comes with a promotion, showing instead the grim expression of a soldier on the battlefield.

Good. I need men who understand duty around me.

Duty… and loyalty.

"Be careful," I tell him.

He nods. "You, too, pakhan. "

I watch him go, the car speeding off into New York traffic. Any time now, Vlad should be here with half my army. The irony doesn't escape me: I spent so long suspecting the wrong man, and now, here I am, waiting for him to bring the cavalry.

Some leader I turned out to be.

I spy a long line of black cars. One by one, they crowd the alley next to the warehouse and start spitting out men in suits. Vlad's men.

Then another car speeds into the alley, nearly crashing into the last one. "What's the meaning of this?!"

Petra.

I steel myself. With everything that's happened in the past few hours, there was one question I was forced to table for later. Because I didn't have the bandwidth. Because there were other priorities.

Is Petra working against me, too?

"Petya!" Vlad bellows. "I told you to go home."

But she ignores him. Instead, she makes a beeline for me, elbowing her father's men left and right to get there. "Tell me it's not true," she demands. "Say it."

I turn to Vlad. "What the hell is she doing here?"

"She was with me when you called."

"And you let her listen?"

"How was I supposed to know you were going to drop a bomb like that?!" he scoffs. "I tried to keep her away, but you know women. Long legs, even longer ears."

"Quit talking like I'm not here!" she cries out. "Especially you, Matvey. You've never done that to me before. Don't you dare start now."

I clench my jaw. Petra's face is a mask of heartbreak, hurt and confusion swirling together in the pools of her eyes.

But is that all it is? A mask?

Just then, my phone rings.

"Ignore it," she growls. "Look at me, Matvey. Tell me I heard wrong. Tell me that Yuri didn't…" She swallows a sob.

Fucking hell. If she's acting, she's doing a damn good job of it.

And if she's not…

If she's not, I can't tell her what she wants to hear.

So I pick up the phone. "You have five seconds to tell me who you are, how you got this number, and why I shouldn't have you killed," I snarl.

"Only five seconds for all that?"

The voice on the other side of the line hits me like a sucker punch.

It can't be. It's not possible.

But it is. Because there's no one else that voice could possibly belong to. "April," I rasp. "You're okay."

"Kind of?" She laughs awkwardly. All this hell breaking loose, and she laughs. My woman was always the strongest soldier among us. "I'm in mafia jail."

"In what?" A thousand questions crowd my mind. "Wait—how are you calling me? Where are they keeping you?"

"We don't have time," she cuts me off. Suddenly, her voice fills with urgency. "Matvey, it's Yuri. He's the mole. He's working with Carmine, and they… They have our daughter."

I grit my teeth. Somehow, April got hold of a phone. She went to God knows what pains to secure that, to dial my number and warn me…

And it's too late.

"I know. I swear to you, April, I won't let anyone harm either of you. Not Carmine, and not…" My mouth fills with bitterness. "Not Yuri. He'll pay for what he's done."

"No," Petra whispers. Her face fills with the kind of heartbreak you can't find on TV, the kind that destroys empires.

"Grisha's gathering the vory as we speak," I tell April, forcing my gaze away from her grief.

April's response is the last thing I expect. "He's what?" she stammers. "No, Matvey, you can't."

I frown. "Can't what?"

"Don't let him gather the vory ," she rushes to say. "Yuri and Carmine aren't working alone. Someone else is in on it!"

Her words turn me to stone.

Someone else.

Another betrayal.

Possibilities flash through my mind. Where is the kiss of Judas going to come from next?

Grisha and his loyalty?

Petra and her grief?

Before I can go any further, April answers the question for me. "It's?—"

A name slips out of her lips. One name, and then the line is brutally cut, the sound of crushed circuits echoing in my ear.

I can't even be properly furious about that—the fact that they discovered her, that she must be in danger right now—because the name she gave me demands my immediate attention.

Because the owner of that name is right in front of me.

I reach for my gun, but another one's safety clicks off before I can draw. "I wouldn't do that if I were you, son."