Page 136 of Cashmere Cruelty

I can’t say the same for me. I’ve been throwing my drinks into a potted plant all night. If it’s still alive in the morning, it’ll be the most hungover ficus on the face of the earth.

“I’m so happy we did this,syn,” Vlad practically burps in my face. “Men should drink together. It strengthens their bond.”

For me, this bond’s already feeling too fucking tight. The old bastard wouldn’t even let me take calls—switched off both my phones himself.It’s a matter of respect, he grumbled.

I was tempted to cut his hand off in return, but this is my future father-in-law. If I can’t pick my battles now, I can’t imagine what my marriage will look like.

A shitshow, my mind supplies.You already know that.

Fuck me, I do.

As if summoned by the word “marriage,” April’s face pops up in my thoughts. Which is ridiculous, because that’s not even remotely on the table. For me or her.

I have my dreams. It’d be foolish to think she doesn’t have hers, too.

“Yes,” I reply through gritted teeth. “We should do this more often.”Anything to hasten your entry into the afterlife.

Just as I’m thinking up an excuse to leave, I watch Yuri take a call and pale. “Motya,” he whispers, “something happened at the penthouse.”

I freeze. Then I spring to my feet. “Excuse me,” I tell Vlad. “Duty calls.”

“Duty?” Vlad blinks. “No, no—we’re drinking now. Duty can wait.”

“I’m afraid it can’t.”

It’s taking everything I have to keep calm. Vlad tries to get up to stop me, but the alcohol in his system finally seems to be taking effect. He drops right back onto his chair, steadied by his bodyguards.

“Drinks are on me.” I hand my card to a waitress and don’t stick around to get it back. I’ll send Grisha later—if I remember.

Right now, I’ve got only one thing on my mind.

As soon as we’re out, I turn to Yuri. “Tell me what happened,” I bark.

And Yuri does.

I’ve never forced Grisha to drive this fast. I feel like a heartless cowboy digging my heels into a horse, spurring it to death.

But right now, I don’t give a fuck about anybody else. Grisha can deal.

Only one person matters.

Every second in the elevator is a nightmare. As soon as the doors open, I rush out and stride into the penthouse.

I’m greeted by a bloody sight.

The place is trashed. There’s no other word for it: carpets stained, couches gutted, furnishings overturned. It looks like someone put a hit on the apartment specifically.

But they didn’t.

They put a hit onApril.

I find her in the kitchen. She’s serving coffee, of all things. Her hair’s a mess, dress stained red around her neckline. The left side of her face is sprayed with blood, too.

I charge to her side. “Are you hurt?”

April shakes her head. Without thinking, I move to brush the bloodstain off her cheek, but the mess only seems to get worse. I want to cart her out to the bathtub and scrub her clean from this—want to make her forget. But I already know she won’t forget this as long as she lives.

April isn’t Bratva. To her, a hit isn’t just another Tuesday.

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