5. April

5

APRIL

When I open my eyes again, I don't recognize my surroundings.

I'm no longer in my ratty motel room, that's for sure. Not with these hand-carved wooden walls, the decorative antiques peppered tastefully on expensive furniture—Mrs. Tanner would have pawned it all in a heartbeat.

And then there's the rustic air of the place, more forest-y and way less "I can make all your dreams come true for ten bucks an hour, if you don't mind the smell."

That's when it dawns on me: This is a cabin.

And then: I'm not dead.

I stir on the couch, a sharp pain stabbing through the back of my head. "Ow," I mutter.

"Apologies. My men can be a bit rough."

I sit up immediately. That voice. After what happened at the motel, I'd recognize it anywhere. "You."

"Me," the man agrees with a smile.

"Where's my baby?" I scan the room for her, but I don't see her anywhere. Panic sets in. "What did you do to my baby?!" I start screaming.

The man holds up a hand. "I assure you, Ms. Flowers, your baby's perfectly fine."

"I want to see her!" I rise from the couch. The lingering effects of the head blow make me sway, but I don't care. I could be crawling on my hands and feet, and I wouldn't goddamn care. "Let me see my baby!"

My baby. That's all that matters to me.

With a sigh, the man turns. He scoops up something from behind him. I couldn't see it before, but now, I do: it's a crib. A wooden one, like they used to make decades ago.

And inside…

"Give her to me," I snarl. "Give her to me right now."

The man tuts. He picks up my baby and holds her in his arms. She goes willingly—gently. And how could she not? She isn't even a month old; all she's ever known is kindness. And if there's one thing wolves in sheep's clothing have got going for them, it's feeling warm to the touch. "I'm afraid I can't do that yet, Ms. Flowers. After all, we still need to talk."

"Then talk."

Despite the urgency in my voice—or perhaps because of it—the man takes his time. He brushes his fingers along the line of the baby's nose, then plays with her tiny hands. Nugget's quiet in his hold, her sleepy coos fading quickly. "I have to confess, April: I'm almost jealous. Mine was never as easy to settle."

"That's still Ms. Flowers to you."

He makes a winding gesture with his free hand, as if amending his words. "Ms. Flowers, then. Nevertheless, you're a very lucky woman."

"She's a very smart girl."

He gives a slow hum. "Like her mother, perhaps."

Smart or not, I'm not stupid enough to miss the blatant threat. Do as I say, and I just might let you live. "You still aren't talking," I point out.

"My apologies. Let me start over," he clears his throat. "My name is Carmine."

I notice he pronounces it as Car-mee-neh. It's not a common name, not by a long shot; I'm unsure how you'd even spell it.

But then, as if reading my thoughts, he adds, "Ah, but I know that's a little bit tricky to say for you Americans. Feel free to call me ‘Carmine,' like the color. I always did like red, after all."

I don't give a rat's ass what you like, motherfucker.

"Charmed," I deadpan.

For the first time since we met, I let myself take in his appearance: tall, reasonably built, with salt-and-pepper hair and a swanky black suit. His eyes are coffee-dark, pupils nearly invisible, and his hands are filled with rings of the gaudiest gold-and-gemstone variety. He practically smells like money.

And danger , a part of me adds.

It's so weird. This man couldn't be more different than Matvey: the way he speaks, the way he acts—it all screams slimeball.

And yet, something also feels familiar.

But before I can put my finger on what, Carmine speaks again.

"You can't outrun Matvey forever, you know. Sooner or later, he's going to catch up to you. And then who knows what will happen?" he says casually. "It pains my heart to think about it."

"Maybe it's a coronary," I suggest.

He gives a warm laugh. "Such a spitfire. I get what Matvey saw in you."

"You know nothing about Matvey," I snap.

He sends me a look then—something briefly cold. Like the icy prick of an unexpected raindrop. "Oh, but I do ."

The moment passes. When he speaks to me next, he's jovial again, as if nothing happened at all. But I know I didn't imagine it—the chill down my spine is proof.

"Anyway," he continues, "you can't think too highly of him. I mean, you're on the run, aren't you? Surely you're not dying to see him again. You must know what he does to his enemies."

I've never once doubted that Matvey would never hurt me. Ever since I got to know him, truly know him, I understood: however sharp his fangs may be, he would never turn them on me.

But Carmine's words are sinking deeper than I'd like. Without even realizing it, I've already started to feel it: fear.

Stop it, I scold myself. It's not Matvey you're scared of.

That's when it dawns on me: he's doing it again. Playing mind games, leading me in circles. It's how he got me last time.

I can't let it happen again.

"And what would you suggest?" I ask.

"That we join forces to destroy him."

I almost let myself get carried away again. Almost hurl at him all the choice words crowding my head.

Me , destroy Matvey?

I'd sooner destroy myself.

But I don't tell him that. This time, I have to be smart.

"Go on," I say.

"He has your ear," Carmine continues. "Right now, he's only angry with you because he thinks you left voluntarily. What if we spun him a tale?"

As he speaks, I start looking around the room for something to fight with. A weapon, a toothpick, anything. The more I see of this place, the more it looks exactly like the cabin serial killers use to turn lost hikers into hamburgers. Slightly less than reassuring.

"What kind of tale?" I ask, pretending to consider his offer.

"A beautiful tale." Carmine grins. "A tale of love and loss. You didn't leave that hospital on your own, you see—you were taken. Once he welcomes you back, all you'll have to do is keep me informed: what he does, who he sees, where he goes."

"Mm. And who's the villain of this story?"

"Yours truly, of course."

The room really is chock-full of trinkets. Antique teacups, tribal masks, glass animals: everything you'd find in an old couple's home, right next to the postcards from Normandy.

But nothing you could stab a man with.

It's strange: before today, I never seriously considered killing anyone. The mere thought would have made me sick to my stomach.

But with my baby in his arms, it's all I can feel: the urge to fucking maim . I'd gut him like a fish to stop him from harming so much as a hair on my daughter's head.

"He'd never buy it," I say, starting to pace around the room for better access to other potential weapons. "I didn't do this alone, you know. If my partner decided to talk…"

A sculpted elephant, a Moai statuette, a tiny glass fish…

"What, that blond delivery boy of yours?" Carmine laughs. "He won't talk. And even if he did, there are ways to keep people silent."

Crap. Did I just accidentally put out a hit on Yuri? "You seem awfully confident."

"Let's just say Yuri's no stranger to me, either."

That gives me pause. Someone who knows both Matvey and Yuri; someone I've never heard them mention by name, but who seems to be intimately acquainted with them. Enough to act condescending about them.

A Latvian fishscale vase, a Bastet paperweight, a queen bobblehead…

"I don't want him hurt. He's been kind to me."

"I have no beef with the little one," Carmine assures me. "Only the big boss."

There.

A stylographic pen, antique. And a really sharp one at that. "Just him? You won't hurt anybody else? Not even the wife?"

"Would you like me to hurt the wife?"

The mere thought sends a chill down my spine. I may despise Petra with all my heart right now, but homicide still feels a bit much. "No. She's pregnant."

"Then let's hope it's a girl."

I shudder so hard I nearly drop the pen. That cheerful voice, spewing such bloodcurdling threats—it's almost too much.

He doesn't just want to kill Matvey—he wants to end him. Wants to sever his line by any means necessary.

For once, I'm grateful for old white men and their weird fixations on male heirs. It might be the only reason my kid is still breathing after all. Three cheers for misogyny, everyone!

I stash the pen behind my back and pretend to consider the offer a bit more. "What do I get in return?"

"Safety, for one thing," Carmine starts to list off. "The Groza Bratva will be off your back for good. I'll also make sure you're properly compensated."

"Compensated how?"

"However you need." He shrugs. "Money. Apartments. New identities to settle far from here. Have you seen school tuition fees lately? Let me tell you, raising a child has never been more expensive. Especially in this economy."

"You don't have to tell me that," I mumble. It's not the first time I've looked into the yawning chasm of my future as a single mother and shuddered at the horrors waiting for me there.

Carmine looks pleased. "So? Can I count on your support?"

The pen is heavy in my grip. But I can't turn back now. Not with my baby still in the evil clutches of Smiley McCreepy here. "Shall we shake on it?"

This is it, April.

"Sure, why not?"

Whatever you do, do not miss.

I start walking. Carmine stays where he is, clearly used to having people come to him. God, I hope he doesn't expect me to kiss his gazillion rings. I'd die of old age.

Carmine offers me his hand—not to kiss, thank the stars—and I put forth mine. The free one, the one that isn't about to commit the gravest sin of all.

But is there any sin we wouldn't commit for our kids?

As soon as his hand is in mine, I strike. I hold the pen like a dagger and descend, aiming for the tender spot between neck and shoulder.

But Carmine doesn't even flinch. With a flick of his wrist, he twists mine and rids himself of my handshake.

Then he bats the pen away.

I watch my last hope fly through the air, cluttering to the ground on the other side of the room. As soon as it hits the floorboards, it snaps in half.

"Pity," Carmine sighs. "I quite liked that one."

I make a grab for my baby, but his grip is steel.

She starts crying then, a loud piercing wail. Honestly, I'm tempted to do the same.

I'm fucked. Completely, royally fucked.

"You should've taken my deal, Ms. Flowers," Carmine tuts, fishing for something behind him. "We could've been partners."

Then he points a gun at my head.

I know without question that I'm about to die.

"Any last words?" he asks.

"Yes," I blurt out. "Please don't hurt my baby."

Something flashes through Carmine's eyes then. Something that might almost be pity. "I won't. She's far too important."

I let out a sigh of relief. Whatever reasons he may have, whatever plans—he won't harm her. He won't harm my daughter.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, tears rolling fat down my cheeks. "I'm so sorry, M?—"

Then the door bursts open.

Carmine turns.

So do I.

And Matvey's eyes meet mine.