Page 174 of Cashmere Ruin

“No matter. I’ll bring the earpiece so you can stay looped in.”

“Meeting someone, then?”

“Yes,” I sigh, irritated. “My ghost of a brother. He finally deigned to return my texts. Now, he wants to meet.”

“In the most inconvenient place in the city?”

“Apparently. But he says it’s important, so we’re going.”

“Roger that, boss.”

I have Grisha drop me off on a side street, then walk the rest of the way there. The café is crowded, exactly the kind of place I’d never choose to have a sensitive meeting in. I hope my brother has a damn good reason to drag me out here, because otherwise, there’ll be hell to pay.

I spot Yuri at a table outside. “Where the fuck have you been?” I growl.

“Sit.”

What’s with the attitude?I try to hook his gaze, but he keeps evading me. With no other choice, I drop down in the opposite chair. “I’ve been trying to reach you for days, Yuri.”

“I know. I’ve been busy.”

“Too busy to let your pregnant girlfriend know?”

That seems to have an effect. He finally lifts his eyes from the table, a trace of guilt in them. “Petra was…?”

“Worried sick? Yeah,” I grunt. “She didn’t say it in so many words, but I could tell.”

He bites his lip and nods. “Thank you. For taking care of her.”

Weird.Ever since I got here, that’s all I can think of: everything about Yuri seems weird today. Something’s just… off.

“What’s going on, brother? If you found the mole?—”

“Shut up.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Ex-fucking-scuse me?”

“I said shut up,” Yuri repeats with icy calm. “You’re not the one in charge here, Matvey. I am. And I’m the one speaking.”

“I have no idea what’s gotten into you,” I growl, all concern forgotten in a heartbeat, “but you’d do well to remember I’m yourpakhan, Yuri.”

“No, you’re not. Not anymore.”

Then he slides something my way.

I’m so livid I can barely fucking think. What the hell is going on with my brother? Why is he acting like this all of a sudden?

And then, through the fog of rage, I see it.

A picture.

It’s April, handcuffed and behind the bars of some damp warehouse cell. She’s lying on the dirty floor, eyes shut, passed out cold. On the other side of the bars, a faceless man holds a bundle in his arms.

No, not just a bundle.

Our daughter.

For a long moment, I can’t even process it. I tell myself I must be seeing things. Because this can’t be real. Itcan’t.

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