Page 23 of Bratva Bride
I offer him a neutral smile. “Something like that.”
They all laugh, apparently convinced I’m making a joke. “Man, you’ve got that deadpan humor,” Mike says. “I could never keep a straight face like that. What do you actually do?”
I shrug. “It depends on the day.”
“Does it pay well?” Brian asks, still grinning.
“Well enough,” I say, watching as Mila runs by, confetti stuck to her hair.
Mike elbows Jeff. “Hey, maybe he can help you move next month—did you hear he negotiated with the movers to get them under budget?”
I nod. “If you ever need something heavy moved in a hurry, just call me.”
They laugh again, a little too loudly, and I almost crack a real smile.
9
NADYA
The folding chairdigs into my back, but I keep my posture graceful, feet crossed at the ankle, my cup of lukewarm punch balanced in my lap. I’ve wedged myself into a loose semicircle of women under the shade, the kind who wear expensive sunglasses and seem to float above ordinary concerns. The park is alive with noise, but our little patch of grass feels insulated.
“Nadya,” one of the women says sweetly. “You look lovely.”
“Thank you.” I smile, just enough to pass. “So do you.”
She doesn’t, really. The neckline is trying too hard, the fake diamonds on her ears trying harder. But this isn’t about truth—it’s about playing the game. And I’ve played harder ones.
“I was just telling Kira here about the caterer we used last month for my daughter’s communion,” the woman goes on. “Little pastries in the shape of doves. Absolutely divine.”
Kira, a younger brunette with thick lashes and too much perfume, leans in. “We were saying how rare it is to have an outdoor party with this kind of turnout. Mila must be so happy.”
“She is,” I say, glancing toward the playground where she’s giggling with a bubble wand. “She’s never had anything like this before.”
That earns a few sympathetic looks. I can see the gears turning. They wonder if I’m playing the tragic card or if I’ve finally snapped from grief. Probably both.
Another woman with cherry-red lipstick and too-tight skin sips from her cup. “And your husband,” she says, too casually. “He’s kept a low profile lately.”
There it is.
“I suppose,” I reply. “We’ve been focused on family.”
“Some might say a party like this…so soon…” The woman in pale peach linen leans back with practiced grace, fingers curling around her wine tumbler. Her lips lift in a smile that’s all sugar and starch. “It sends a strange message, don’t you think?”
I know her name now, Tatiana. Her voice is smooth, low, with the kind of practiced diction that comes from years of expensive silence and chosen words. She’s the kind of woman who runs things without raising her voice. Married into one of the oldest Bratva families.
I glance at her. “Strange how?”
“Oh, Nadya,” she says lightly. “Don’t misunderstand. It’s lovely, really. But with everything that’s happened…a public celebration, balloons and cake in the park…it’s bold.”
Bold. That’s what she calls it. Not crass, not attention-seeking, not premature.
Bold.
I clench my cup a little tighter. The plastic creaks.
It would be so easy to snap back. I can feel the words forming, dry and cruel and too fast. I could slice her open with a smile and leave the rest of them scrambling to patch it up.
But I don’t.
