Page 30 of Cashmere Cruelty

With a sigh, Yuri slumps against the wall. “So, you know… feel bad, but not too bad.”

I try to make sense of the words. I fail miserably. “Sorry, what does that mean?”

The tall Russian mobster rolls his eyes. He can’t be that much younger than me, but his attitude screams “teenager.” He reminds me of Charlie at thirteen, huffing and puffing like a chimney every time someone tried to speak to him. “I mean that the whole thing’s a farce. An arrangement.”

A lightbulb goes off in my head. “You mean, like a political marriage?”

“Precisely.”

I feel my heart flutter. I don’t know why this changes anything—why I’m suddenly feeling ten times lighter. I tell myself that it’s just about the guilt: crashing a business deal isn’t as bad as crashing another woman’s dream wedding, right? I’m not a homewrecker after all. That must be it. The sweet relief of an innocent verdict.

Right?

He isn’t with her, a treacherous part of me whispers from the half-closed lid of my heart.He hasn’tbeenwith her. Not like he’sbeenwith you.

I slap the lid shut. This is neither here nor there. I can’t know that they haven’t—and besides, what do I even care?

“Like I said,” Yuri huffs, breaking into my thoughts, “a farce.” He crosses his arms and turns away, glaring at the wall. Somehow, I get the feeling he wasn’t thrilled about this whole deal to begin with. Who knows? Maybe I even did him a favor.

I try to imagine what it’d be like, knowing one of my siblings is marrying for interest. Power, maybe, or money. If it was Anne, I wouldn’t bat an eye.

But if it was Charlie…

If it was Charlie, I’d try to talk him out of it until his last step towards the altar.

“You must really love your brother,” I muse without thinking.

Yuri blinks at me in surprise. “Yeah,” he admits after a beat. “I do. He’s everything to me.”

“That’s nice.” I smile. “Siblings should stick together. Who else are you going to complain about your parents to?”

“Our parents are dead.”

Oh. I am overcome with the urge to kick myself. Is it socially acceptable for a pregnant woman to literally kick herself? Is that allowed?

“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling mortified. “I didn’t know.”

To his credit, Yuri just shrugs. “You couldn’t. You don’t know Matvey.”

The words sting like a slap.

I don’t know why, but I feel anger mounting inside me. It’s uncalled for—Yuri hasn’t said anything wrong. To me, Matvey Groza is a stranger.

But youdoknow him, that voice inside of me insists, enraged.You’re carrying his child, aren’t you?

“Was it recent?” I ask, forcing myself back from the brink. This man’s still a boy. He deserves my sympathy, not my anger.

“Nah.” Yuri shrugs, like he’s trying to tell himself it doesn’t matter. Even speaking about something like this with me, a person he doesn’t know from a hole in the wall—it shows how far he’s willing to go. To tell himself it no longer hurts. I know a thing or two about that: telling myself stories to carry me through the day. “It happened back in Russia. His mom first, then mine. And our father—” Suddenly, he stops. Like he’s said too much. “It doesn’t matter,” he repeats, that gruff edge back in his tone. “You don’t need to know anyway.”

Just then, the door swings open. Matvey Groza strides in like he owns the place. Which, considering he does, seems apt. “Any news from Grisha?”

“No,” Yuri replies, as grumpy as ever. “He’s taking forever.”

“He’s putting out fires.Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt, shall we?”

Yuri doesn’t seem thrilled about that, but he doesn’t press. “How’s Petra?” he asks instead.

His brother shrugs. “She’s a big girl. She’ll manage.”

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