Page 19 of Bratva Bride
He turns, brow arching slightly. “What kind of guest list are we talking about?”
For a beat, I don’t answer. My mind flashes—Lev, standing just where Maksim is now, smirking as he read my mind before I even opened my mouth. He would’ve made a joke about canapé trays or seating charts, but he would’ve known. He always knew.
But Lev’s gone, and I’m standing here alone with a plan half formed and the weight of it pressing on my spine.
“I need allies,” I say simply. “Women who’ll have my back if things turn…political.”
Maksim’s expression doesn’t change, but I catch the flicker of understanding behind his eyes. He leans one shoulder against the wall, hands still in his coat pockets. “Anyone in particular?”
“I trust your judgment,” I say.
He gives me a long look, one I can’t quite read. He folds his arms. “You want women with access. Bratva-adjacent, but not in the spotlight.”
“Yes.” I nod.
He’s quiet for a moment. Then, slowly, he nods. “Alright. I know a few names. They’ll take some convincing—but I’ll get them there.”
“Thank you,” I say, and mean it.
He steps back, already pulling out his phone. “Don’t thank me yet. Some of these women have claws sharper than yours.”
I smile faintly. “Good. I’m tired of being the only one drawing blood.”
8
KONSTANTIN
The sun is out,warm but not harsh, filtering through the line of trees that border the park. It’s a good day, by all appearances. Families sprawl across picnic blankets, strollers roll by, and somewhere behind us, a street performer strums a lazy tune on an acoustic guitar.
But I can’t stop watching her.
Nadya stands near the bench, arms crossed loosely, eyes hidden behind her sunglasses. She’s dressed like any other young mother in the park—simple, stylish, forgettable if you aren’t looking too closely. But I’m always looking.
And I know that stance, that posture, that quiet calculation just beneath her surface. She’s planning something. I just don’t know what.
She talks to another mother—laughs, even—but her weight shifts slightly to the right, toward the hedge behind her, keeping her back covered. When she turns her head to check on Mila, she doesn’t do it casually. She sweeps the perimeter. She’s working. Even now.
She told me this party was for Mila. And maybe it is. But it’s also a move. A step forward on a board I haven’t quite mapped out yet. And that gnaws at me, more than I want to admit.
But then I hear her—Mila—screaming with laughter from the jungle gym, and everything stills for a moment. She’s running with another girl, cheeks flushed, hair flying wild in the breeze. The sound cuts through me, bright and pure. It reminds me that she’s still a child, even if the rest of us have aged ten years in the last few weeks.
She’s happy.
At least for now.
But the weight returns almost instantly. Because today isn’t just about Mila. It’s also Nikolai’s birthday.
Nikolai should be here. Running beside her, laughing with her, arguing over which ice cream flavor to pick after. I see him sometimes, out of habit—a flash of dark hair in a crowd, a little boy at the edge of a sidewalk—but it’s never him.
And it won’t be. Not unless we find him.
Nadya glances over her shoulder at me then, catching my gaze. She gives me the smallest nod before turning back to her conversation. That look—it tells me everything and nothing.
I get up from the bench and start walking toward the jungle gym. Not because I need to, but because I need todosomething. The wood chips crunch beneath my shoes as I pass a cluster of parents, all chatting about schools and sleep schedules like nothing in the world has ever gone wrong. I envy them, in a strange, bitter way. Their normalcy. Their ignorance.
Mila spots me before I call her name. “Papa!” she shouts, beaming as she comes bounding down the slide and running straight to me, arms wrapping around my leg like I’m some kind of anchor.
“Having fun?” I ask, brushing hair from her face.
