Page 11 of Bratva Bride
I follow him slowly, aware of my own steps, of the gentle tap of my cane on the polished hardwood. I glance around, noting the watchful gazes, feeling suddenly certain that Viktor wouldn’t bring me here simply to flaunt his wealth. He wants something—I just don’t know yet what it is.
He gestures to a smaller, empty table in a quiet corner, indicating that I should sit. As I do, he settles opposite me, leaning back with an expression that’s both confident and calculating. I recognize that look—I’ve worn it myself plenty of times.
“You wouldn’t show me all this unless you had something specific in mind,” I say, keeping my voice quiet, direct.
Viktor’s mouth curves in a slow, knowing smile. “You’re right, Konstantin. I don’t waste time on tours unless I see potential for mutual benefit.”
I hold his gaze, careful not to show too much of my own hand. “And what benefits exactly are you looking to gain from me?”
He raises an eyebrow, as if the answer should be obvious. “I think we both know there are things you can offer that nobody else in this city can.”
Viktor rises, his movements precise, controlled, as he walks to a polished mahogany cabinet set discreetly into the far wall. He opens it to reveal shelves lined with bottles, each illuminated from beneath, casting a warm amber glow through the glass. His fingers run thoughtfully over the labels before settling on a bottle at the very top, one clearly reserved for special occasions or special guests.
He brings the bottle to our table, handling it with the quiet reverence of someone who appreciates rarity. “A thirty-five-year-old Macallan,” he says, setting two heavy crystal glasses between us. “Nearly impossible to find these days.”
I lift the glass, swirling the whiskey gently. The scent rises, smooth and smoky, layered with hints of dark fruit and spice. I take a sip, and for a moment, despite myself, I’m genuinely impressed.
Viktor watches me closely, a knowing smile forming at the edges of his mouth. “Rare, isn’t it? Something most people won’t ever taste. But you’re not most people, Konstantin.”
I set the glass back on the marble table carefully, sensing we’re circling closer to the heart of the matter. “Flattery is nice, Viktor, but we both know this isn’t just about whiskey.”
He inclines his head, acknowledging the point. “You’re right. It’s about the shifting landscape, the fractures running through our world. You’re someone who still holds respect in certain circles, despite recent setbacks. Men talk about loyalty, but we both know it’s usually for sale to the highest bidder. Real power,real influence—that comes from respect. It’s something you’ve cultivated, even when you don’t realize it.”
I watch him closely, hearing the shift in his voice. “And you want that respect?”
He chuckles quietly, lifting his glass, studying it thoughtfully. “I’ve built this place from nothing, fought to hold every inch of ground. But you know as well as I do—when you rise quickly, some see opportunity. The vultures have started circling.”
He leans forward slightly, voice dropping even lower. “There’s someone making moves on the edges of my operation. Trying to unsettle things quietly. Not open warfare yet, but enough whispers to make me cautious.”
“Who?” I ask, watching the tension that flickers briefly across his face.
“His name is Grigori Vasin,” Viktor says carefully. “New money. Ambitious, well-funded. He has friends in places that should worry us both. Friends in law enforcement, politics. He’s looking to expand fast, and right now, he’s picking targets he thinks are weak or distracted.”
“I have my own battles to fight, Viktor. I didn’t come here to play messenger for someone else’s war. My son—” The words catch in my throat. I force myself not to look away, unwilling to let him see how much it costs me to say his name. “My son is missing. That’s the only battle I care about.”
Viktor doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans back and withdraws a slim folder from the inside pocket of his jacket, setting it between us with careful, deliberate movements. “What if I told you I know for certain that Grigori has Nikolai?”
Every sound in the room seems to dull, the expensive silence pressing in around us. I stare at Viktor, searching for any hint of a bluff. But he just opens the folder and slides out a stack of photographs, spreading them across the table in slow, practiced order.
The first shot is grainy, taken from a distance, probably through tinted glass. A man I presume to be Grigori Vasin stands outside a hotel entrance, his arm draped over Alexei’s shoulder. The next image is clearer—Alexei laughing, something cold in his eyes as he talks to two men I don’t recognize. Then comes the one that makes my breath stop entirely—Nikolai, thinner than I remember, stepping into the back seat of a dark sedan. The timestamp reads three days ago, Los Angeles.
For a long moment, I can’t move. My heart thuds hard against my ribs, each beat sharp enough to feel in my throat. The world narrows to the images on the table, every line of Nikolai’s face, every shadow under his eyes. He’s alive. He was alive. Close enough that I could have touched him, if I’d only known where to look.
When I finally speak, my voice sounds foreign, scraped raw. “How long have you had these?”
Viktor watches me with an understanding that’s almost painful in its clarity. “Not long. I wanted to be sure before I brought you in. That’s why I asked you here, in private. I don’t trust half the city with this. But I trust that a father will do anything to get his son back.”
He lets the last photo slide across the table, close enough that I have to see every detail. “We help each other, Konstantin. I help you bring your boy home. And together, we make sure Grigori—and Alexei—learn what happens when they cross the wrong men.”
My hand closes over the picture, the world settling into something cold and focused. For the first time since Nikolai disappeared, I have a direction—a name, a face, something real to strike against.
I look up at Viktor, my answer already clear in my eyes. “Tell me everything you know.”
5
NADYA
Arman’snew place isn’t anything like the penthouses I used to visit as a child, or his suite at the Astoria. It’s tucked behind tall hedges on a quiet street where the city noise feels distant and every car that drives by gets a second glance. The house itself is sprawling but discreet—painted a sun-bleached taupe with windows tinted against curious neighbors and a front porch shadowed by blooming citrus trees. There are two black SUVs parked out front, the sort you only notice when you’re taught to look for muscle.
