61. April

61

APRIL

No.

No, no, no…

"Whew!" Carmine goes. "Thought he had me for a second there." He gives Matvey a cursory glance, then steps over him.

I want to kill him. I've never felt like this before. Never in all my life. If I didn't have a baby in my arms right now, I'd be wringing his neck with my own two hands.

"But like I said…" He gives a light kick backwards, jostling Matvey's limp arm in the process. "—can't beat the house. Right, Miss?"

It's like watching a kid gloat over the flightless torso of a butterfly. Like nothing could make him happier than plucking those wings right off. Not because he hates it—just because he's curious. Because he wants to see what will happen.

"You're a child," I realize.

Carmine's face hardens imperceptibly. "Come again?"

"You're a child," I repeat, rising to my full height. "That's why you left, over and over. Because you couldn't possibly handle the responsibility of being the adult in the room."

"I understand you're upset?—"

"You understand nothing," I laugh. It's the last thing I expected to do in a moment like this, but here I am: lips curling into a half-snarl, half-grin. All the mockery I was always on the receiving end of, ready to overflow towards the other side. "You didn't go after Matvey because he was after you—you went after him because he knew the truth. That you, the great Don Carmine Bonaccorsi, were nothing but an overgrown toddler."

Carmine's smile freezes on his face. "Interesting choice of words for someone on the wrong side of the barrel."

"Then use it," I drawl, taking another step forward. "Make me disappear. And prove me right while you're at it."

Finally, there it is: conflict. Such a big man, hemmed into a corner by a measly seamstress. "No, no," he sneers. "You don't get the easy way out, Miss. Not after this enlightening conversation. And, I'm sorry to say, neither does your daughter."

If anything could make me freeze, it's that.

In any other circumstances, I might have forced myself to eat my own words. To fall to my knees and beg for forgiveness, for mercy. Not because I believed any of it, but because it was the smart thing to do. For my daughter— our daughter.

Except that I see movement.

It's the barest twitch out of the corner of my eye. For a second, I wonder if I've imagined it. I'm certainly desperate enough.

But then it happens again.

And suddenly, I know exactly what to do.

"You'd take it out on a baby?" I scoff. "Wow. What a big, bad man you are."

"I was under the impression you were the clever one. Now, did I get that wrong?"

"And I was under the impression you had a goddamn mafia at your beck and call." I take a step forward. "But I guess all the good ones left you."

"No one leaves me," he growls.

"Right. You just do it before they can."

"You know, I'm getting real tired of this," he says. "Don't get me wrong—I feel for you. It's never easy to fall for the wrong man. But allow me to give you one final piece of advice. For your next life, shall we say."

"Can't wait," I mutter.

He gives a deranged smile. "Next time, make sure you pick the winning side."

Then he cocks his gun.

I should be afraid. No, scratch that—I should be goddamn terrified. But I'm not. All I feel is a strange sort of calm. "I've got some advice as well."

"Oh?" he asks. "Let's hear it then."

"Next time, check for a pulse."

I see the color drain from his face. It's immensely satisfying, bringing a giant to his knees.

It all happens in slow motion.

I watch him turn, eyes wide, and meet the gaze of his son. "But you're dead," he blurts out.

"No," Matvey replies evenly, showing off the tattered lapel of his jacket. His bulletproof jacket—the one I gave him to wear. The one I made for him, one careful stitch at a time. "You are."

Then he fires.

I don't avert my eyes. I don't brace myself. I don't even try to step out of the way.

I just cover up my baby.

Blood sprays me from head to toe. Carmine blood—talk about irony. I let it shower over me, disgust giving way to something stronger and far more intoxicating.

Power.

The second the body drops, Matvey rushes to my side. "Are you okay?" He pulls out a pocket handkerchief—also shot straight through the middle—and starts cleaning me up.

"Me? Sure." I shrug. "I'm a future pakhansha. What's a little blood?"

He grins. "You learned how to say that one, too."

"Took longer than I would've liked, but we got there in the end."

"I'll say." He grabs my face and kisses me. I'm gross from head to toe, but it's like he couldn't care less. Like I'm all he needs and then some.

Lucky for him, he's all I need, too.

"YURI!"

Our heads snap back in unison. Petra's just dropped the last of Carmine's henchmen to the floor—and she's running straight towards the back of the room.

Oh, no. With everything that was happening, I completely forgot.

We both run after Petra. She's kneeling in a pool of blood, her pristine cream clothes stained beyond repair, her fingers trembling as she drops her knives to the ground and grabs Yuri's face with both hands. "Yuri. Wake up."

Nothing.

"I said wake up!" she shrieks. "I'm not done with you! I haven't forgiven you yet!"

I want to tell her there's hope, but I'm not sure that's true. I try to find a pulse, but I'm not a nurse, so I have no idea if I'm doing it right. All I know is that I can't feel anything under my fingers, nothing except…

Cold.

I glance at Yuri's hand. It's clutching his phone, something it wasn't doing before, when I was here by his side. The screen's covered in blood, but it looks like he'd been trying to text someone.

He was trying to save us. With his last breath, he was still…

Matvey's gaze follows mine, and I can tell he's come to my same conclusion. His face is a complicated tangle of emotions. Strong, conflicting emotions, all warring in the icy pools of his eyes.

"Give me that," he rasps. "We need to call?—"

BOOM!

One of the walls bursts open, revealing another hidden door. And from that door…

"Vlad's men," Matvey growls. "Looks like the fight isn't over yet."

"Like hell it isn't," Petra spits. She tries to stand up, but?—

"Easy," I murmur. "You've been fighting all this time. You're in no condition."

"You're right. So help me up."

I blink. It's the last request I expected from Petra: help me. "Okay."

We both hold her up, me on one side, Matvey on the other. "Petra…"

"Carry me to my father's corpse."

We do.

The Solovyov traitors surround us. I glance back at Yuri, but we don't need to walk too far before Petra shrugs us both off.

Then she plants her foot on her father's chest. "The king is dead. You have ten seconds to say, ‘Long live the queen' or end up like him."

"What's she trying to do?" I whisper.

"Rule by consensus," Matvey whispers back. "But it won't work. Not with Vlad's men."

He's right. I realize it immediately: for every recruit who moves over to our side, there are ten who don't. Who sneer and spit out insults: suka here, shlyukha there.

Funnily enough, I don't feel like I need a dictionary for these ones.

"What are we gonna do?"

Matvey steps in front of me. "Fight."

It's so unfair. Yuri's still lying there; Petra's tears haven't even dried yet; and Matvey. He escaped death twice for me today. Will we really be lucky enough for a third time?

"I want a gun, too," I decide.

"No fucking way."

"Matvey, I need to protect May, I need?—"

"So you know how to shoot one?"

"I…" I pause. Dammit, he's got me there. "I'm a quick study?"

The last man comes over. We're still ridiculously outnumbered, but at least like this we have a fighting chance. Right?

Right…?

"I love you," I whisper to Matvey.

"I love you, too."

"I don't hate you," Petra mutters. "Either of you."

Well, now, we're really going to die.

Vlad's men take aim. I squeeze my eyes shut, preparing myself for the inevitable bloody end.

I'm sorry, May. I'm sorry I couldn't be a good mother to you.

I'm sorry I…

"Evening, gentlemen. Care to drop those guns?"

I blink.

Grisha?

I must be hallucinating. This has to be a stress reaction of some kind. An illusion conjured by my subconscious to make my last moments bearable.

But if it is, why am I seeing Grisha of all people?

And yet, one quick glance at the room tells me it's not my imagination's doing. Not Grisha, not the army he's brought with him—and not the hundreds of guns aimed at the Solovyov traitors.

It's the cavalry.