Page 17 of Cashmere Cruelty

“Anywhere,” he breathes.

I pull my phone out of my coat pocket. Then I fish something out of the case: a business card.

Hisbusiness card.

I type his name into my browser. After that wretched afternoon, we haven’t had any more contact. I made sure to call in sick at that final fitting. I had no desire to ever see him again.

I can’t say I want to now.

But I also don’t have a choice.

The man is a social media ghost. For a moment, despair takes hold of me. Maybe I could have the cab drive to the address on the back of the card. Maybe?—

Then I find it: a single picture, posted by the account of the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Her blond hair is made up in a long tress, her clothes impeccable. Next to her, Matvey Groza stares impassively at the camera, looking as if he just ate a lemon.

And then, on the woman’s finger…

A diamond ring.

Caption:I said yes! Save the date: January 15th, Jupiter Hotel in Manhattan. Ceremony on the terrace at 12:00.

I check the time: 11:48.

“Here,” I tell the cab driver, giving him my phone. “Please take me here. Fast.”

As the driver takes my word for it, speeding through traffic like I still hold a gun to his head—again, my bad—only one thought haunts my mind.

I’m about to crash a mob wedding.

6

MATVEY

The suit’s a perfect fit.

Of course, I knew that already. I made the trek back to that little shop specifically to make sure of it.

Butshewasn’t there.

I adjust my tie in the mirror. The sensation of silk on my fingertips brings back memories. It’s been nearly a year, but my mind still likes to go there sometimes. That changing room. That scent.

Her.

I pull something out of my pocket: a ribbon, long and sleek, the same color as my tie. A little souvenir I’ve kept with me since then. If I hold it close, I can still smell her perfume.

I shake my head and huff. Is this what Grisha was warning me about? Pre-wedding jitters?

Nonsense. I’m Matvey Groza. The head of the most powerful Bratva in New York City. I don’t get nervous.

Especially when it comes to politics. And make no mistake, that’s all this is.

A knock sounds on the door. I turn my head and call, “Come in.”

A whistle follows in lieu of a greeting. “Wow. Look atthat. Trying to upstage the bride?”

I roll my eyes at her. “If you were afraid of that, you should’ve picked a better tailor. I can introduce you, if you’d like.” It’s my best attempt at a joke, even though the mere thought ofsharingmakes blood rise to my head. “What are you doing here? Don’t you know it’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding?”

My blushing bride doesn’t blink, nor does she blush. The day Petra Solovyova gets flustered because of a man, hell will freeze twice over.

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