Page 5 of Bratva Bride
“I made some enquiries about Viktor,” she murmurs, her tone soft but thoughtful, as if the subject’s been pressing on her all this time. “He’s not just another old man with money. He’ssomeone who gets things done. Discreet. We should go see him. He might know something—he might be able to help us.”
Something in me snaps cold. All the heat drains out in a rush, replaced by suspicion, anger, a wave of exhaustion that makes my whole body go tense. I pull away, climbing to my feet, grabbing my clothes off the floor, shoving my legs into my pants, not caring that I’m rough or that she’s still sprawled on the rug.
I don’t look at her as I button my shirt, voice flat and bitter. “Is that why we fucked, Nadya? So you could soften me up and get your way?”
For a moment there’s only silence, then a rush of movement as she pushes up onto her knees, fire flashing in her eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?” she snaps, not bothering to reach for her own clothes yet, the anger bright and raw in her voice. “You think I planned that? That I let you fuck me just to manipulate you? Are you really that far gone, Konstantin?”
I whirl on her, rage and helplessness burning through me, louder than sense. “You’re the one who’s already decided what we do next. You don’t even care what I want. You keep pushing, pushing, like I haven’t tried everything to get our son back. Like I’m not tearing myself apart every damn day trying to find him!”
She stands, naked and shaking, but she doesn’t back down, her fists clenched at her sides. “This isn’t about you! We lost him, Konstantin. Both of us. We’re supposed to be in this together, but you’re always looking for someone to blame—usually me!”
I can’t help it—I reach for her, grabbing her arm, not hard enough to hurt, but enough that she feels the desperation behind it. “You think I don’t care? You think I haven’t tried enough? Every night I’m crawling the city for scraps, every day I’m talkingto ghosts. And now you want to cozy up to a snake like Viktor, like he’s going to magically fix everything?”
She wrenches her arm from my grip, her voice breaking, furious and wounded. “Maybe I want to try something—anything—you won’t! Because all you do is brood and lash out and push me away. Maybe Viktor’s all we have left.”
My fists clench at my sides, shame and anger twisting together in my gut. “Maybe you should have gone to him before you crawled into my bed.”
The words hang there, vicious, impossible to take back. For a second, she just stares at me, breath ragged, tears in her eyes, and I realize too late that I’ve crossed a line I never meant to touch.
She turns away, grabbing her clothes from the floor, silent except for the jagged sound of her breathing. I watch her, helpless, every part of me aching to reach for her, but I stay frozen, hating myself for the way everything I touch turns to ruin.
3
NADYA
Mila sits perchedon the windowsill, knees tucked up under her chin, her face pressed to the glass as if the city might reveal its secrets if she just stares long enough. The sun is low, sliding between apartment blocks and sending everything gold, the river in the distance flickering like spilled coins. It’s not a view for tourists—just our little slice of borrowed sky, the kind you learn to treasure when you have to start over.
I lean against the wall beside her, arms folded, watching as she traces patterns in the fog her breath leaves on the glass. For a while, neither of us says anything. Sometimes silence is easier.
Then Mila sighs, dramatic, her gaze never leaving the maze of fire escapes and distant traffic. “Why is this place so small?”
I try to keep my face serious, though I can already feel a smile tugging at my mouth. “You grew up in a studio apartment, Mila. Remember when your ‘room’ was the corner next to the fridge?”
She looks at me, her nose wrinkling in mock outrage. “That wasn’t a room. That was a closet.”
“Correction—it was a very exclusive sleeping nook with bonus access to midnight snacks.” I nudge her with my elbow. “Some people would kill for that kind of real estate.”
She giggles, that quick, high sound I haven’t heard enough lately, and for a minute she’s just my little girl again—no shadows under her eyes, no weight pressing down on her small shoulders. She knocks her foot against the windowsill, glancing at me.
“But that was different. That place had—” She pauses, thinking. “Character.”
“Character? Mila, the shower once tried to electrocute me,” I say, wondering where she even heard that word. I haven’t been paying too much attention to her school. Irina used to help with that, but now…
Mila hasn’t gone to school in over a week. My chest hurts just at the thought of it.
She smiles, but it’s softer now, and her eyes go distant, following the shape of the river as if she might spot something important floating by. The room grows quiet, and I feel the shift before she says anything—like a breeze slipping through a crack in the window.
“Mama,” she says, her voice small, “do you think Nikolai likes his new room? Do you think it’s bigger than this?”
The question punches the air out of my lungs. I reach over and pull her close, her hair warm under my chin as I press a kiss to the top of her head.
“I think wherever Nikolai is, he’s dreaming about us,” I say softly, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “And when he comes home, we’ll let him have the whole living room. He canbuild a fort out of every pillow in the apartment, and I won’t even complain about the mess.”
Mila nods, silent for a moment. I hear her breathing, feel her small hand clutch my sleeve, and know there’s nothing I can say to fill the empty space.
My phone buzzes against the sill, shattering the quiet between us. Mila glances up, curious, but I force a small smile and ruffle her hair.
“Homework, remember?” I whisper, kissing the top of her head before slipping out of the room, shutting the door just enough to keep her safe in her own bubble of city lights and pretend normalcy.
