Page 25 of Cashmere Cruelty

Behind me, I hear April stifle a snort. She recovers quickly. “Pleasure to meet you,” she greets, the picture of perfect courtesy.

Back in customer service mode, no doubt.

“Yuri, Grisha,” I continue, “this is Ms. April Flowers. Tailor, signature forger, unrepentant wedding crasher?—”

“Hey!”

“—and the mother of my baby.”

Two pairs of eyes widen. I pretend I don’t notice.

“Now,” I say, cracking my knuckles, “which one of you is gonna give me a status update?”

8

MATVEY

“‘Baby’?!”

“Wait, how are you supposed to know?—”

“—something’s not right here?—”

“Motya, what the?—”

I slam my palms on the table. “I asked for a status update, not a fucking press conference.” I force myself to take a long, deep breath. It’s either that or someone’s going to eat lead before the day’s done. “Grisha. You go first.”

For once, Yuri doesn’t argue.

Grisha clears his throat. “It’s hell out there, boss. The only reason people aren’t shooting is because Ms. Solovyova threatened to shove their guns up?—”

“I can imagine,” I cut in. “How is Petra?”

This time, it’s Yuri who answers. “She’s upset, brother. She stormed out of the terrace with her bodyguards a minute ago. Her father’s still there, settling the men.”

I have about as much faith in Vlad’s ability to settle his men as I do in the damn Tooth Fairy. “Alright. Grisha, you go back up there. Get our men in line, then tell Vlad the wedding’s postponed. The Solovyovs threw the first punch, so make it look like it’s hisfault we can’t move forward today.”

Grisha smirks under his mustache. “Will do, boss.”

“Yuri,” I say, turning to my brother, “you’ll stay here.”

“But—”

“Guard her with your life,” I tell him, stressing how important this is. If that baby’s truly mine, I can’t entrust this to anybody else. “Got it?”

He swallows. “Got it.”

“Good.” I start heading towards the exit with Grisha. “I’ll look for Petra. We meet back here in fifteen.”

I spare April one last glance. Like this, with her hazel eyes staring at the floor and her whole body pressed against the arm of the couch, she doesn’t look like the spitfire tailor I was sparring with only minutes ago. If anything, she looks like she’s trying to make herself as small as possible. Tohide.

But there’s no hiding the obvious bump under her flowy maternity dress, nor the precious cargo it carries.

I don’t want to leave. But I have to.

“Stick with Yuri,” I tell her. “He’ll keep you safe.”

“I can keep myself safe!” she argues—but it’s weak. Exhausted. Like it’s taking all of her strength to just stay upright.

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