Cashmere Cruelty (Groza Bratva #1)

54. April

54

APRIL

Admittedly, it’s easier to be smug when it’s all theoretical.

It takes a few tries to sneak into the staff area. When we do, I push Petra into the locker room and shove a uniform in her arms. “Put this on,” I tell her. “Quickly. Before anyone comes in.”

It’s the museum guide uniform, the one with the green blazer. I curse mentally: the blue blazer of the runway hostesses would have sped things up tremendously. With that, we could’ve strutted into the backstage like we owned the place.

But this is the only spare lying around, so we’ll have to make do.

Petra glares daggers at me. “And let you go? No way.”

“We don’t have time to argue.”

“If you think for one second?—”

I lose my patience then. I even forget to be terrified as I yell in the face of the most dangerous assassin I’ve ever met, “You wanna hold hands or you wanna make vor ?!”

Then I realize what I’ve done.

For a moment, Petra’s mouth opens and closes like a goldfish. I wonder how she’s gonna do it: single bullet to the head? Knives? How long do I get to pray for my immortal soul?

But, surprisingly, she doesn’t snuff me out. Not yet, at least. She just up a finger and growls, “One wrong move?—”

“And I’m sleeping with the fishes,” I rush to finish. “Understood.”

Still narrowing her eyes at me, Petra finally lets go. “No funny business,” she reiterates. “And turn around while I change!”

I face the door and exhale, forcing my heart to slow. Calm down. Keep your cool, April. This is all for Nugget.

I listen in for any sign of someone coming in. But with the guests all converging towards the runway, I doubt the staff’s got time to powder their faces. If this is anything like the time I assisted Elias here, the hostesses for both sides of the event must be running around like headless chickens.

That’s when it finally dawns on me: Holy shit, I’m pulling a heist.

I glance at the clock on the wall. Somewhere, a part of me is still holding out hope. Hope that Matvey will come for me.

“I’m done.”

I turn. The uniform fits her nicely enough—bit tight around the waist, maybe, which is odd, since Petra’s figure is nothing to scoff at. But then again, this is the fashion industry we’re talking about. Size eight means two sizes too big.

“Why did I have to do this?” she complains. “Why not you?”

“I mean…” I point at my gigantic pregnant belly. “Do you see a uniform lying around that can cover up this ?”

Begrudgingly, Petra concedes. “Fine. But if you try anything?—”

“Fishes, sleep—I know.”

When she grabs my arm again, I don’t make a move. No matter how much I want to run, it would be pointless to even try.

If only Matvey were here. I shake that thought away. Matvey isn’t here. I can’t rely on him to save me over and over again.

This time, I’m gonna have to save myself.

Petra side-eyes me. “What next?”

“Now, you escort me to the bathroom.”

“Excuse me?”

I sigh, exasperated. “You’re staff. I’m pregnant. You’re escorting me to a bathroom—that’s our cover story. Unless you’d rather broadcast our status as thieves?”

“Jeez, fine.” She rolls her eyes. “No need to be such a bitch about it.”

“Say that again when you’re kidnapped,” I mutter, unable to stop myself. “We’ll see how you like it then.”

Something flashes across her face then—something like guilt. But it’s gone as fast as it came. “Let’s get on with it.”

Silently, we leave the locker room behind.

It takes less than two minutes for a burly man to come charging at us. “You!” he barks. “What are you doing here?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Petra twitch for her knives. I don’t have time to think about self-preservation. So I do the only thing I can think of: I elbow her in the ribs, hard .

“Sorry!” I yelp at the newcomer. “I wasn’t feeling well. She was just—escorting me.”

For a second, I wonder if Petra’s going to kill two birds with one stone. Like, literally.

Then I feel her grip relax just a little.

“… to the bathroom,” she adds through gritted teeth.

“My feet are killing me today.” I nod along and put on my best puppy dog eyes. “I went searching on my own and got totally lost. Plus, the baby’s been kicking like crazy.”

The man in front of us seems to mellow a bit. I glance at his nametag— Bobby, Assistant Manager. “Fine,” he says gruffly. “Help our guest, then get your ass to the ticket booth. Fashion show starts in ten.”

“Will do.” Petra smiles, all sweet and poisonous.

I send a mental prayer out for this guy’s soul. Petra’s perfectly capable of settling matters here, then finding out where Bobby lives and making him eat his words. Possibly with a side of knives.

“And put your nametag on!” he calls after us.

By my side, I hear her mutter, “I’ll put my nametag up your?—”

I drag Petra out of earshot. As soon as we’re around the corner, I hiss, “Are you insane? Were you actually going to kill that guy?”

She seems shocked that I’d dare cross her like this. In my predicament, it’s certainly not the smartest thing to do. But I can’t let other people get hurt because of me.

“What?” she snaps. “It’s not like anyone would miss him.”

“I didn’t come here to kill, Petra,” I hiss. “I came here to help. So let me help.”

Something in my words must get through to her, because I watch her mask of ice crack just a little deeper. “And how are you planning on doing that?”

“Do you trust me?”

It’s a stupid question: of course Petra doesn’t trust me. She kidnapped me. She held me at gunpoint. She forced me to come up with a plan to steal millions in diamonds, risking my freedom in the process.

She threatened my child.

So why is a part of me still hoping she’ll say yes?

Petra’s expression shutters. The cold seeps back in, turning everything to frost. “I trust you to do whatever it takes to keep yourself alive.”

I nod, swallowing my disappointment. “Good enough. Then follow me.”

Wordlessly, she does.

Getting backstage is a nightmare. Everywhere we turn, there seems to be someone just around the corner: staff, guards, angry businesspeople yelling into their phones.

But somehow, we manage.

The second we sneak into the changing room, I push Petra behind a privacy screen. “Alright, clothes off. Now.”

“I beg your pardon?”

I glance around and see the first models starting to line up for the show. “We don’t have time to argue,” I say. “Do you want your tiara or not?”

Without waiting for a reply, I swipe a black trench coat from the coat rack. Then, rummaging through the pockets, I find a pair of sunglasses and put them on. “I’m gonna need your dress, too.”

I’m expecting resistance, but Petra simply hands me her bag. “Watch your hands,” she warns.

I frown at her words, but immediately grasp what they’re about as soon as I start going through her things. “Oh, wow. That’s a lot of knives.”

Then a lightbulb goes off in my head.

I get to work without a moment to spare: I grab a knife, pull the fabric taut, and start tearing the dress to pieces.

“ Blyat’ , what the hell are you doing?!” Petra screeches.

“Making you look high-fashion,” I answer without glancing up. “If you’re gonna strut out there, you need to look the part.”

“I’m sorry—if I’m going to what ?”

“Hey!” a blue-blazered hostess strides towards us. “You can’t be here!”

“Put this on,” I whisper. “Now.” Then I turn and spit, “Ex- fucking -scuse me?”

Both Petra and the hostess in front of me seem taken aback.

“Um… this room is models-only,” the hostess tries, a bit less flippant now. “You’re not…”

I adjust my sunglasses and channel my inner Solovyova. “Of course I’m not a goddamn model. Do I look like I’m gonna go strutting anywhere?” I spit, pushing out my belly. “I’m an agent , kiddo.”

I’m sorry, Nugget. Mama’s gonna make you an accessory to grand larceny after all.

“T-Then you sh-shouldn’t be?—”

“ She’s the model.”

I drag Petra out from behind the privacy screen. She stumbles for a moment before catching herself, glaring daggers at the poor hostess in front of us. Her pristine white dress, once smooth like silk, hangs in tatters from her figure.

The hostess blinks a few times, like she’s trying to remember Petra from the lineup. Which, of course, she can’t.

But we can use that.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know who she is?” I pretend to be outraged. “You work in fashion , for God’s sake. And you don’t know of…!”

Crap. I should’ve come up with an alias earlier. My mind draws a complete blank, every Russian name I’ve ever known slipping out like water.

All except?—

“You don’t know Anna Kareni…shka?!” I correct myself at the last second.

By my side, Petra makes a sound in her throat that could be choking.

On the bright side, the hostess looks properly terrified now. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I wasn’t briefed?—”

“Briefed!” I scoff. “Like anyone needs to be briefed about Belarus’s runway superstar! Are you hearing this, koshka ?!”

I have no idea what that word means, but for the first time in my life, I pray it’s not an insult. The last thing I need is for Petra to turn on me in anger and slaughter everyone in sight, myself included.

Luckily, she doesn’t knife me. “Unbelievable,” she tsks instead in the thickest accent she can muster. Then she sticks up her nose and looks away, the picture of a scorned, spoiled diva.

Guess it must come naturally to her .

“Thirty seconds!” a guy yells from behind the scenes.

I give the hostess my best glare. “Well? Are you going to explain to your bosses why their surprise guest star couldn’t make her appearance or shall I?”

The hostess’s face pales. “M-My apologies! Please, forgive my ignorance. I’ll do anything, just…!”

“Anything?” I echo. “Then go fetch me a glass of sparkling water. Stat. ”

The poor thing runs off. I make a mental note to stop by a church to cleanse my soul after this, assuming I survive. I feel icky from head to toe.

“Nice job,” Petra whistles next to me. I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not. “You should consider joining the Bratva as a spy. I might put in a good word for you when I’m vor. ”

“Thanks, but I’d rather eat glass.”

We approach the line of models. Some are still putting on the finishing touches, even now. Others are standing in front of the curtains, posing for the camera flashes to come.

At the end of the row, I glimpse the model with the tiara.

So does Petra.

Her eyes bulge. The prize in sight, right there for the taking. If she just reaches out…

“Five seconds!”

“Don’t,” I whisper to her before she can try something rash. “Do your part. I’ll do mine.”

Then the curtains lift.