Page 172 of Cashmere Cruelty

That stops me dead in my tracks. “Wait. You don’t have a plan?”

“I don’t need one. I have you.” With that, she yanks me forward again. “Didn’t you forge Matvey’s signature? Didn’t you steal his hair for that DNA test? Didn’t you escape two armed kidnappers with only your wits and pretty face?” Her smile turns sharp, cruel. “You’ll think of something. If not for yourself, then for that tiny life inside you.”

The threat to my child makes me bristle, but I force myself to keep my cool—because something else just dawned on me.

This is wrong. This is all kinds of wrong. Petra’s a stone-cold assassin: calculating, clever, always one step ahead of everyone else. It’s unthinkable she’d come all this way without an inkling of a strategy.

But then again, wasn’t it unthinkable that she’d threaten you at gunpoint, too?

Wasn’t it unthinkable that she’d threaten your child?

As angry and hurt as I am, too, I can’t let those emotions cloud my judgment. Because I just realized what my mission is here. Myrealmission.

One: to save Nugget.

Two: to save my own skin.

Three: to save Petra from herself.

So I take a deep breath, count back from ten, and say, “We’re going to need a map.”

Apparently, luck hasn’t forsaken me forever.

We find our maps right at the entrance. Petra swipes one from the neat pile of trifold brochures and holds it open in front of us with a single hand. The other one is, of course, still threatening to snap my arm at the first wrong move. Definitely not the most charming date I’ve been on.

“Pen,” I request.

Petra frowns at my commanding tone, but I don’t have time to be polite. This is a job. Work Mode is the only way I’ll get through it.

Correction: the only way I’ll get both of us through it.

“Let’s take a turn around the room.”

“I didn’t realize we were two Victorian maidens,” Petra mutters.

“You want to keep sassing me out or you’d rather keep your freedom?”

Glowering, she obliges.

We walk around the exhibition a couple of times. In any other situation, I’d have a blast here: the gowns dripping in jewels, the stunning accessories, the artists’ commentaries underneath. I could spend hours staring at each piece, each detailed explanation of how it came to be. I could be here with a friend by each side.

But that’s not how it happened. And crying over it won’t put the spilled milk back in the bottle.

As I jot the final notes down on the map, the grip on my arm tightens. “Are you playing me for a fool,koshka?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“You’re buying time,” she says icily. “You’re hopinghe’llcome save you.”

I can’t deny it’s crossed my mind. Petra still doesn’t know about June, so with any luck, she’ll have reached out to Matvey by now.

But I know better than to put all my eggs in one basket. “You’re wrong.”

After all, last time I called, Matvey didn’t answer.

“Don’t fuck with me, April,” Petra hisses into my ear. “You haven’t seen me angry yet.”

I sincerely doubt that.“And you haven’t seenmeangry,” I hiss right back, frustration finally bubbling up to the surface. “So don’t you fuck with me, either.”

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