Page 13 of Bratva Bride
Near the table, a compact woman in a charcoal sweater slides vials into a hard-sided kit. Blond braid looped tight, eyes the color of granite, she checks each label twice before snapping the case shut.
“Katya,” Arman says. “Field medic. Ten years patching people up where the war never quite stops. She knows every night-shift nurse from Santa Monica to Glendale.”
Katya offers a firm handshake, her gaze assessing but warm. “If a child comes through an ER under a false name, I’ll hear about it,” she promises, her Russian accent soft but unmistakable.
Across the table, the glow of two monitors paints shifting code onto the angular features of a man. “And that’s Dima,” Arman says, gesturing to the nerdy guy. He turns around to look at us, pushing his wire-frame glasses up his nose, fingers never pausing on the keyboard.
“Surveillance, databases, comms,” Arman explains. “If there’s a camera pointed at a door, Dima’s already looping the feed.”
Dima swivels half a turn, gives a quick wave, then keys in another line. “Pulling last quarter’s pediatric-admission logs now,” he says. “Sealed records open in ten minutes.”
Arman turns back to me, his voice settling into something close to gentle command. “These three are yours as much as mine.Whatever you need—routes, clinics, digital trails—they’ll make it happen.”
I glance from Rifat’s watchful calm to Katya’s quiet certainty to Dima’s restless focus. No one looks at me with pity; they’re already assembling the search like a puzzle they intend to solve.
“Tomorrow at first light,” I say, drawing a breath that feels steadier than any I’ve taken in two weeks. “We start with hospitals and shelters. Katya—lean on your contacts for any unexplained child transfers. Rifat—keep the van flexible, routes randomized. Dima—I want every foster-placement record flagged for under-the-table adjustments.”
They nod in unison. Plans unfold—markers sliding across the map, numbers exchanged, favors queued. The library is no longer a relic; it’s a command post.
When there’s a moment of quiet, Katya flips open her medical kit, fishing out a foil pack.
“What’s that?” I ask. My pulse thrums. Things are moving too fast, and for a moment, I can’t help but think about what I’ve dragged myself into.
But then Katya holds up the bag. I blink. “Is that…” I trail off.
“Bribe of choice,” she says, shaking it. “Gummy bears. They work on children…and adults who forget to eat.”
Rifat leans against a bookcase. “They’re her universal cure. Bullet wound? Gummy bear. Broken heart? Double portion.”
I raise a brow. This was unexpected. “Is there a flavor hierarchy?”
“Green first,” Katya answers without hesitation. “Everything else negotiable.”
Dima finally tears his eyes from the screen, pushing his glasses up. “Green? That’s chaos. Everyone knows red rules the pack.”
“You would say that,” Katya fires back. “You sort files by hex code.”
Rifat chuckles, arms folded. “He also labels his coffee mugs by ASCII value. True story.”
“That was one time.” Dima’s cheeks color faintly. “Besides, caffeine deserves respect.”
“How about this,” I say, easing into a chair. “Next meeting we blind-taste every color. Winner sets the playlist.”
Rifat perks up. “You just guaranteed we finally retire Dima’s ‘Synthwave for Hackers’ loop.”
Dima spreads his hands. “The bass line improves focus. Science.”
“Your science, maybe.” Katya laughs. “To me it sounds like microwaves having feelings.”
The easy back-and-forth settles inside me like warm broth.
Arman watches from the doorway, eyes soft. “Good. If you can argue about candy, you can trust each other when it counts.”
I glance at each of them. Rifat’s quiet vigilance, Katya’s dry humor, Dima’s restless curiosity—different from Konstantin’s guardroom bravado, but strong in its own way. For the first time all day, my shoulders ease.
Katya slides the gummy-bear packet across the table toward me. “Take it. Emergencies only.”
I slip it into my pocket. “Deal.”
