Page 20 of Cashmere Cruelty

“And…” Yuri pauses, looking for the right words. “Are you sure about this, brother?”

Am I?“I have to be,” I settle on. “We need the Solovyov numbers. Otherwise, it’ll take years before we grow big enough to take on…”

I don’t say the name. Yuri knows perfectly well who I’m referring to.

“I understand,” he says finally. He still looks conflicted, but I choose to ignore it. Brides and grooms probably aren’t the only ones who get nerves on days like these. “But…”

“Yura.”

He stops.

The nickname always makes him listen. It reminds him of when we were kids—just two orphans stumbling in the snow, learning how to wield a gun to survive.

“It’s just a wedding,” I say, squeezing both his shoulders. He’s so tall, it’s hard to remember he’s only twenty-two. I used to dwarfhim by a whole head: now, it’s mere inches. “It’s not that big a sacrifice.”

“But you don’t love her.”

“I was never planning to marry for love, brother.”

“But—”

“Blood,” I tell him, turning serious, “is the only tie I need. The only tie we cantrust. Anything else is fleeting at best. And, at worst, a lie.”

I see him swallow, then nod. “I know,Motya.”

“I know you do.” With one last pat, I let Yuri go. Then I cross the distance to the door. “Is it time yet?”

“Yeah,” Yuri says, checking his watch. “It is.”

I grin. One last effort, and everything I’ve ever wanted will be within my reach. Allies, power, means.

Best of all…revenge.

“Well then,” I say with a grin, “lead the way, brother.”

I walk up to the altar.

By my side, Yuri takes his spot as best man. I can see Grisha in the crowd, giving me a sneaky thumbs-up.

Then the march starts playing.

As the organ sings, Petra walks in on her father’s arm. Decked out like this, in six-inch heels and a tiara that would put anytsaritsato shame, she makes Vlad look like a garden gnome. Somehow, I get the feeling it’s intentional.

With each step she takes, I can feel my dreams closing in. With each word out the priest’s mouth, I can feel my ambitions settling in my grasp. With each respective “I do,” I can sense the balance of the world shifting.

When the officiant says, “Speak now or forever hold your peace,” I nearly laugh. Who in their right mind would cross us? Who in their right mind would opposethis?

And then, like lightning striking twice, April Flowers rushes in.

“I’m pregnant,” she announces breathlessly, sporting the most gigantic belly I’ve ever seen. “And it’s yours.”

7

MATVEY

It happens in slow motion.

That’s what it looks like to me, at least. After my wedding-crashing tailor drops her bomb, the terrace goes deadly quiet. For a second, the air is still, like the instant before a shootout.

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