Page 18 of Bratva Bride
Rifat chimes in, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve got a friend keeping an eye on transport hubs—bus stations, cheap motels, anywhere someone could stash a kid for a few days. No hits yet, but he’ll call the second anything moves.”
I let out a slow breath, my mind racing through the possibilities, the walls seeming closer than before. “So, we have nothing. We’re still in the dark.”
Arman’s voice is firm, cutting through the doubt. “We have something—they’re getting bolder. The attack at the ice cream shop means they want to draw us out. Maybe they think we’ll make a mistake, or maybe they want to split our attention.”
Katya nods. “They’re using pressure. The more desperate we get, the more likely we are to move rashly.”
I glance between them, feeling the edges of frustration building under my skin. “I thought we were going against them head on,” I say. “That’s what we do, isn’t it?”
“That was before you mentioned the serpent tattoo,” Arman says. “That changes everything.”
I frown, crossing my arms. “What do you mean?”
Arman stands, pacing once around the cluttered table. “We still pressure Alexei, but we do it the smart way. I want you to do something else first. I want you to talk to the wives.”
“Excuse me?” The words leave my mouth before I can hold them back.
“You heard me,” he says, meeting my eyes without flinching.
I let out a breath, frustration tightening in my chest.
“You’ll get further in an afternoon of tea and gossip than any of us could in a week of threats.”
I stare at him, incredulous. “You want me to waste time with the Bratva wives? I can crack safes, jump across buildings without so much as tripping, plant a bug in a moving car, pick locks fasterthan most men can blink—but you want me to sit in a living room and trade stories about handbags and summer holidays?”
Arman’s tone is even, almost patient. “Men in our world have a blind spot,” he says. “They underestimate women. They talk freely in front of them—deals, threats, secrets—because in their minds a wife is background noise, not a witness. Those women hear things they’re never supposed to hear.”
I keep my arms crossed. “So you want me to play invisible, hope they let something slip?”
“I want you to be exactly who you are,” he replies. “Smart, observant, someone who knows what matters. Sit with them, listen. They’ll tell you where the bodies are buried, because no one ever taught them not to.”
I draw a breath, letting the edge of my frustration blunt just enough to see the angle. “Fine,” I say, though the word tastes like iron. “I’ll pour tea and smile until my cheeks ache. But the moment I have a lead, I’m back in the field.”
Arman smiles—a flash of pride, quickly hidden. “That’s all I’m asking.”
Later that evening, I wait until the apartment has settled, the city’s noise outside blending into a low, distant hum. I find Konstantin in the living room, half reading a newspaper, one eye on the hallway in case Mila wanders out.
“I want to throw a party,” I say casually, pretending to busy myself with a stack of mail.
He lowers the paper, brow furrowing. “A party? Now?” His voice is cautious. Not unkind, but skeptical, the questions stretching between us like a wire.
I shrug, keeping my tone light. “A birthday party for Mila. Even though Nikolai isn’t—” My voice catches, but I push forward. “She’s still turning six next week. And it might be good for us too. We could use a little normal, don’t you think?”
Konstantin studies me, a crease forming between his brows. He’s not convinced, but he’s too tired to argue. “If you think it’s a good idea.”
I nod, forcing a smile, but I can feel his suspicion—he’s seen too much of the world to believe I want streamers and cake just for the fun of it.
At that moment, the door clicks open and Maksim steps in, arms loaded with grocery bags. He stops just inside, scanning the room before he sets everything down on the kitchen counter. His gaze lands on me and lingers a beat too long.
“A party?” Maksim says, voice careful but edged with doubt. He’s polite, always maintaining the formal distance expected of Konstantin’s men, but there’s something pointed in his look. “It’s been a while since we’ve had one of those.” He glances at Konstantin for direction, as if weighing whether he should question me further.
I smile, the kind reserved for strangers who ask too many questions. “Just something small, Maksim. Now that Mila’s going to school again. It feels like the right time.”
He nods, clearly not convinced, but defers to Konstantin’s silence. “If you need anything, just let me know.”
Maksim gives a half-nod toward Konstantin, then turns to leave. I follow him out, closing the door behind us. The hallway is dim and quiet, the hum of city traffic barely audible through the old glass.
“Maksim,” I say, and he stops mid-step. “Actually…I might need help with the guest list.”
