Page 27 of Bratva Bride
He nods, but I’m not done.
“I also want you to find me everything you can on Grigori Vasin,” I say, letting the name settle between us.
Maksim frowns, his hands tightening on the steering wheel as we wind past the empty cranes and sodium lights of the port. “I don’t think I’ve heard that name before. Is he a local?”
“No,” I answer, watching the shadows flicker through the windshield, letting my voice drop to match the gravity in my chest. “He’s not local. And that’s what worries me.”
Maksim doesn’t push further; he knows when to leave questions unasked, which is one of the reasons I trust him to keep the wheels turning while I think several moves ahead. I watch the warehouse lights vanish behind us in the mirror, the city shifting from the concrete wildness of the docks back to the broken promises of neon and glass.
Viktor may have given me the proof, but I don’t trust anybody’s judgment outside my own. Nadya is the only exception, though that’s a truth I keep locked away, even from myself sometimes, certainly from Maksim or any other man in my crew. There’s a line between knowing who to believe and who to listen to, and right now I don’t have the luxury of believing anyone but her, no matter what Viktor thinks he knows or what evidence he puts in my hand.
I look down at the blurry photo on my tablet again, the pixels straining to become something clear as I enlarge the frame. My chest tightens with every small detail I can make out—the slouch of Nikolai’s shoulders, the uncertain tilt of his head, the ghost of his smile I used to see every morning at breakfast—because this image, incomplete and distorted as it is, is the closest thing I have to proof that my son is still somewhere in this city, waiting for someone to come for him, waiting for me to do what I promised I always would. The rest of the world drops away for a moment, the ache in my chest crowding out the sound ofthe engine, the weight of responsibility pressing hard enough to remind me that I can’t afford to let my doubts slip, not now.
When I finally look up, the city has changed around us, the skyline a hard line against the dark. I pocket the tablet, resolve hardening with every beat of my heart.
My phone vibrates just as we merge onto the freeway. I unlock the screen and see Viktor’s name above a new message.
Viktor:Petrov Holding. Russian-flagged vessel, registered out of Malta. Docked in San Pedro two nights ago. Manifest lists steel, electronics, and medical equipment. Your warehouse attack lines up with its arrival. Crew includes three men known to work for Grigori Vasin. I’d start there if I were you.
A second text follows before I can respond:
Check port logs for transfer paperwork signed by “A. Reznikov.” Name’s come up before in Grigori’s old circles. Don’t ignore this one, Konstantin. The vessel is likely your real problem.
“Maksim,” I say, voice low but sharp with purpose now. “Get me the port logs from two nights before the warehouse hit. I want camera footage, crew lists, manifests—everything.”
He nods, already reaching for the phone in the center console.
My eyes linger on the text, then move to the window, and for a long moment all I can see is the empty frame of that blown-out warehouse, the charred beams, the twisted steel, and the unmistakable message left behind—not in words, but in destruction.
“And who the fuck is Reznikov?” I say, not bothering to hide my irritation as I reread the text, catching the name buriedin a forwarded attachment Viktor must have included—an operations manifest, the sort only a local insider would have handled.
“Reznikov?” Maksim echoes, frowning. “He’s the warehouse manager. Civilian. He’s been out sick for the past couple of days. Why do you ask?”
I keep my gaze fixed on the phone, the ugly pieces starting to fit together. “Because if a civilian manager goes missing right before an attack, that’s not a coincidence. Someone used him, or used his absence.”
Maksim glances at me in the rearview, understanding lighting in his eyes. “You want to talk to him.”
“Take me to him,” I say. “Now.”
Maksim nods, already taking the next exit, fingers flying over his phone to pull up Reznikov’s address. I watch the city lights slip by, a new layer of questions tightening in my chest. There’s always someone who thinks they’re safe on the edge of the game. There’s always a first mistake.
Maksim pulls the car onto a quiet residential street lined with narrow houses pressed shoulder to shoulder, their paint faded by salt air and years of indifferent tenants. We double-check the address, then walk up a cracked path edged with tufts of grass that have fought their way through the concrete. Reznikov’s place is the kind of building you could drive by a hundred times and never remember—a dented mailbox, a window air conditioner humming like a tired old fridge, porch light flickering yellow against the dusk.
Maksim knocks. Nothing.
He knocks again, louder this time, then calls out. “Reznikov! Are you there?”
Silence answers us, thick and absolute. No television glow in the windows, no footfall on the other side of the door. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I scan the neighboring houses, looking for any sign of movement, but the block is quiet except for the distant rumble of a passing truck and the faint cry of gulls drifting over the rooftops.
Maksim tries the handle, then shakes his head. “Locked from the inside. Curtains drawn.”
“Check the back,” I tell him, moving off the porch and circling the house. My shoes crunch over gravel and empty bottles. In the small patch of grass behind the building, the back door is chained, a rusted lawn chair toppled on its side nearby. I peer through the gap in the curtains, heart pounding, but the kitchen inside is empty. A mug sits untouched on the counter, half-full, a newspaper folded beneath it, two days old.
I feel the tension in my jaw spread into my chest. The city around us seems to shrink, the night pressing in, every answer just out of reach. For a moment, the only sound is the wind rattling the leaves in the gutter and the impatient scrape of my boots against the concrete.
“He’s gone,” I say finally, voice low, thick with frustration. “And someone wanted him that way.”
I pull out my phone and check the warehouse logs one more time, scrolling back through the last week’s entries, searching for anything—any gap, any late-night swipe, any pattern out of place. Maksim watches me, waiting, his patience stretched thin but holding.
