Page 15 of Bratva Bride
Instead, she tilts her head, her voice small but steady. “Can we go for ice cream first? Like before, when everything was okay?”
I glance at Nadya, and for a heartbeat, neither of us knows what to say. We both know what Mila’s really asking for—a piece of her old life, a little bit of normal in the middle of all this uncertainty.
Nadya smiles, though her eyes are still tired. “Of course we can, Mila. You pick the place.”
Mila’s relief is obvious, her shoulders relaxing, the beginnings of a real smile tugging at her mouth. She hugs the rabbit tighter, then pushes to her feet, suddenly a little girl again, just wanting something sweet and safe.
I look at Nadya, and in that moment the heaviness between us eases, if only by a fraction. We stand together, caught in the awkward peace of compromise, and for the first time in days, hope feels like something more than just a wish.
“Get dressed,” I say gently, brushing a stray curl from Mila’s forehead. “We’ll leave as soon as you’re ready.”
We wait in the kitchen while Mila gets ready, Nadya leaning against the counter, arms folded, watching the clock like she’s counting the seconds before doubt can creep back in. I wash out the coffee cups just to have something to do with my hands. When Mila finally appears, dressed in her favorite yellow shirt and clutching the stuffed rabbit by one ear, she looks a little more herself—hair brushed, shoes on the wrong feet, but determined.
Nadya kneels to help with the shoes, her hands gentle. “You want sprinkles this time?” she asks, voice lighter than it’s been in days.
Mila nods, her smile hesitant but real. “And chocolate sauce too. And can we sit outside?”
“Whatever you want,” I promise, and it’s true—there’s nothing I wouldn’t give for a few hours where the world is just this simple.
The drive is quiet at first, the city already warming under the late morning sun. Mila hums along to a song on the radio, her fingers tracing shapes on the window glass. Nadya glances at me, the corners of her mouth lifting in something almost like a smile.
We park a block from the ice cream shop—one of those places that’s barely changed since before Mila was born, with faded awnings and chalkboard menus, a handful of sticky tables outside under a crooked umbrella. The bell above the door jingles as we step inside, and for a moment, the air is full of cold sweetness and the easy noise of other families, other afternoons.
Mila presses her face to the glass, peering at the rows of colorful tubs. “Can I have two scoops?” she asks, glancing at us, uncertain but hopeful.
Nadya glances at me and nods. “It’s a special day.”
We end up with a cup for each of us—Mila’s piled high with rainbow sprinkles and chocolate, Nadya’s careful with just a drizzle of caramel, mine heavy with coffee ice cream, the only flavor that tastes like memory. We sit outside at a sun-warmed table, Mila’s legs swinging, her voice growing louder as the sugar takes hold and her nerves fade. She tells us about a dream she had where her stuffed rabbit grew wings and carried her all the way to the beach, about a class pet she hopes is still waiting for her at school, about how maybe—just maybe—Nikolai will like ice cream as much as she does when he comes home.
Mila is finishing the last spoonful of her ice cream when something catches my attention. A black SUV moves slowly along the street, its windows tinted, rolling just slow enough to put me on edge. Nadya sees it too, her eyes narrowing slightly as she casually gathers up the napkins scattered on the table.
“Mila,” Nadya says, calm but firm. “Get under the table and don’t move until I say.”
Mila looks at her mother with wide eyes but obeys without a word, slipping down quickly to curl between the metal chairs. Nadya shifts smoothly in front of her, shielding our daughter from view.
The SUV stops half a block away. The doors open simultaneously, and two men step out, their movements precise and deliberate. One adjusts something beneath his jacket. A gun, no doubt. A third man remains behind the wheel, engine idling.
I keep my posture relaxed, but my hand ready. Nadya watches me carefully, waiting for my signal.
As the two men approach, their pace careful but swift, I rise slowly to meet them. My gaze locks onto theirs, tracking everytwitch, every subtle shift of their hands toward their jackets. The taller one moves slightly ahead of his partner, confident, his hand reaching inside his coat.
I step forward quickly, seizing his wrist just as he grips the handle of the pistol. With a sharp twist, I wrench his arm upward, forcing him off-balance. He grimaces, stumbling slightly, trying to regain his footing as he swings at me with his free hand. I dodge, shifting my weight to deliver a heavy blow to his ribs, feeling him buckle as the breath leaves him in a painful gasp.
Behind me, Nadya engages the second attacker without hesitation, fluidly sidestepping his initial grab. He lunges again, attempting to close his arms around her, but Nadya is faster, driving the heel of her palm directly into his throat. He coughs violently, choking on his next breath, his stance faltering for a critical moment. Nadya doesn’t hesitate; she kicks precisely at the side of his knee, forcing him down hard onto the pavement.
A sudden shout draws my attention back to my attacker. He charges again, this time brandishing a knife, his movements desperate and reckless. I move in close, deflecting his arm downward, gripping his wrist tightly. He swings wildly, but I’m already anticipating the movement. With practiced ease, I twist his arm behind his back, the knife clattering onto the sidewalk as I press him roughly to the ground. He struggles briefly beneath my hold before going limp, accepting defeat.
I press my knee into his back, pinning him firmly against the rough pavement.
“Who sent you?” I demand, keeping my voice low and steady. “Tell me. Now.”
He grunts in pain, cheek pressed to the ground, eyes darting frantically as he searches for escape. “I don’t know—I swear,” he manages to choke out, breathing labored. “Just following orders.”
I lean in harder, applying more pressure, my tone ice-cold. “Whose orders?”
He hesitates, eyes flickering briefly toward his partner, still incapacitated by Nadya. I twist his arm tighter, hearing a muffled gasp of pain beneath me. “Last chance,” I warn. “Give me a name. Whose orders?”
Panic flashes clearly across his face. “Someone powerful—someone who wants your family hurt,” he says, voice shaking. “That’s all I know.”
