Page 69 of Cashmere Cruelty

Get a grip. Stop thinking about her.

But it’s easier said than done. If I’m not thinking about fucking her, I’m thinking about that goddamn mouth of hers. Even back at the shop, when we first met, she didn’t take anything lying down. She was perfectly polite, perfectly courteous—and perfectly infuriating. I don’t remember ever being insulted to my face with a smile that bright.

I shouldn’t be so forgiving. I should storm back in there and make it clear which one of us sets the rules.

But I’ve always liked a woman who could hold her own. Someone with character. When your name’s Matvey Groza, you get swarmed with brain dead socialites looking for a rich daddy to replace their rich daddy—one with benefits beyond a thick wallet. To get that, they’ll turn into anything they thinkyou want: chirpy little birds, clucking hens, temptress harpies. Anything at all.

It takes a real woman to know exactly who she is.

And exactly what she wants, a treacherous part of me whispers.

By the time the car stops by the warehouse, I’ve gathered myself. It takes more than a pretty face—or a stunning body—to make me lose my cool.

“Status update,” I command the second I walk in.

Yuri rushes to meet me. “Here’s the autopsy report,” he says, handing me a file. “Our usual coroner.”

The one we pay off to keep everything to himself, I note mentally. Good. We wouldn’t want to get any extra players involved—especially not the boys in blue. “Give me the bullet points.”

“Quite literally,” Grisha comments from my side, leaning over the pictures in the report. Four men, two of them ours, all shot dead.

Yuri makes a sour face at Grisha’s joke. But clearly, our earlier conversation must have made an impression, because for once, he doesn’t start anything. “Estimated time of death between 4:00 and 5:00 PM. For the hostages: single shot to the head, point blank.”

“No surprises there,” Grisha mutters, pointing at the burn mark around the entry wound in both pictures.

“For our men,” Yuri resumes, as if he hasn’t heard him, “we’re looking at a shot through the heart.”

“‘And you’re to blame…’” Grisha hums to the music in his head.

“Excuse me?” Yuri bristles.

“Grisha, no singing,” I cut in before another fight—and another headache—can materialize out of this. “Yuri, no taking Bon Jovi lyrics personally. Continue.”

“But—”

“Continue.”

Yuri’s frown deepens, but he obeys. “Both our men were shot in the back, from a distance of approximately thirty feet, at a forty-five degree downward angle.”

“That’s strange,” I mutter. “Our men would have had their backs to the door they were guarding, facing the front door.”

“And the distance between the cells and the entrance can’t be more than fifteen, twenty feet,” Grisha finishes for me.

“Exactly,” I agree. Then, turning to Yuri: “What did we find at the scene?”

“Not much,” Yuri admits. “Aside from gunpowder residue on the kidnappers’ clothes?—”

“Which would be inevitable,” Grisha says. “Being shot point blank and all.”

“—and what’s written in this report,” Yuri continues, grinding his teeth audibly at the interruption, “we found nothing. No bullets. Just two extra sets of footprints from the cells to the back door. Oh, and a coin.”

“Footprints?” Grisha inquires. “What kind?”

“Size twelve,” Yuri explains. “Standard issue combat boots. Can be bought anywhere.”

“And the coin?”

Both of my subordinates turn to look at me.

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