Page 117 of Cashmere Cruelty

A strange man came to the penthouse,my men told me.He’s with Ms. Flowers right now.

I’ve been an idiot. I’ve been so focused on keeping April out of my mind that I forgot the thing that matters most: our child.

If something happened to them because of me…

He said he was family.That was my soldiers’ excuse for letting him through:He’s family.They know what that means to me.

They have no idea what it means to April, though.

I storm out of the elevator. The bodyguards try to intercept me, already spouting more excuses, but don’t spare those bumbling buffoons a single glance. They’re either fired or dead. It all depends on what I find behind that door.

My blood is roaring in my ears. I can smell ash under the gap, can hear the mad beeping from the smoke detectors.

My child. My woman.

I whip out my keycard. I almost never use it—I promised April this would beherplace for the time being—but this counts as an emergency.

So I swipe it, yank the handle down, and swoop in.

“April!” I call at the top of my lungs, gun in hand. “Are you?—”

And then Charlie Hill turns to stare at me.

“Matvey!” April jolts. “No guns at the dinner table. That was a rule.”

I give myself a moment to breathe—to calm my racing heart.In, out.

Then I take in the sight before me.

April, wearing an apron from the kitchens. A pot, bubbling wildly on the stove. Dark smoke, rushing out of the open window.

And a fifteen-year-old boy with hazel eyes, hands raised in surrender, a pack of mac and cheese clutched tight between them.

“You…” I grimace. “You’recooking.”

April crosses her arms. “You could be less shocked.”

“You set off the smoke detectors.”

“It’s part of my process.”

I glance towards the pot, now bubbling over. “To burn and flood my hotel?”

“Okay, fine, you got me!” April throws her hands up in surrender as well. “So maybe dinner got away from us.” An awkward blush spreads over her cheeks. “Just a little bit.”

“‘Us’ being…?”

In a flash, April turns off the stove and pushes the trembling boy in front of me. “Matvey,” she begins, “this is Charlie, my brother. Charlie, this is Matvey, my…”

April fumbles for a word to describe us. “Matvey Groza,” I cut in, holding out my hand.

Then I realize my gun’s still in it.

I quickly put it away and try again. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Uhh, um…” Charlie mumbles, his handshake a bit unsteady. “P-pleasure’s all mine. I’m Charlie—Charlie Hill.”

“I know who you are,” I tell him. “I make it my business to keep informed.”

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