Page 6 of Bratva Bride
I check the screen, already bracing for another dead end or a message I can’t afford to ignore. But it’s not a number I recognize—no name, no contact photo—just a cold string of digits. My stomach twists as I answer, pressing the phone hard to my ear.
“Nadya.” The voice is unmistakable. All at once I’m ten years old again, knees scraped and heart thudding, waiting for praise or punishment. My uncle’s accent is the same as ever, clipped and certain, impossible to mistake for anyone else.
I nearly drop the phone. “Uncle Arman?” My own voice sounds strange, brittle with disbelief.
“You asked, so I came,” he says simply, as if we’re discussing groceries, not old loyalties or the ghosts we carry. There’s a pause, just long enough for the memories to rise up—his hands on my shoulders, teaching me how to fight, how to run, how to keep secrets even from myself. I grip the phone so tightly my fingers ache.
My chest tightens, a mixture of relief, dread, and something dangerously close to hope prickling through me. I search for something to say that won’t sound desperate.
“I wasn’t sure you’d actually come.”
He gives a quiet, short laugh. “You asked. And I never refuse family—not even the ones who’ve forgotten me.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” I say softly, pressing my back against the wall, glancing toward Mila’s closed door. “It’s just—it’s been complicated.”
“Always is. But that’s why I’m here. I’m staying at the Astoria,” he says simply, as if it’s obvious he’d choose one of the grandest hotels in the city, his usual taste for luxury unchanged even in these circumstances. “Room 503. Come see me. We have things to discuss.”
I swallow hard, nodding even though he can’t see me. “I will.”
“Good. Don’t keep me waiting,” he says calmly, and the line clicks off, leaving only silence and questions behind.
I lower the phone slowly, staring at the screen for a few more moments, uncertainty stirring in my chest. Arman Nikolaev never does anything without a reason, and his sudden presence in the city means trouble—or answers, or both.
And right now, I desperately need both.
I linger by the window, phone cooling in my palm, watching Mila trace little hearts in the condensation left by our breath on the glass. My mind spins. Should I tell Konstantin? He’s in the other room, the muted sound of running water and the occasional creak of floorboards filtering through the thin apartment walls. I picture his reaction—the suspicion sharpening in his eyes, thehard set of his jaw. I know how he feels about Arman. He’s never said it outright, but I see it in the way he tenses whenever my uncle’s name comes up, in the questions he never quite asks.
If I tell him, this becomes an argument—maybe another cold war between us. If I don’t, I risk him finding out later, but at least I have the chance to figure out what Arman wants on my own terms. I bite my lip, anxiety chewing at the edges of my resolve. I remind myself why I called my uncle in the first place—because I needed help, because I was desperate enough to admit I can’t do this alone, not anymore.
Maybe Konstantin will understand when I have answers to give him—real ones, not just more theories and blind alleys.
I tuck my phone away and walk over to Mila, smoothing her hair back as she leans against my side. “I have to go out for a little while,” I tell her, keeping my tone light, pretending this is just another errand. “Stay with Papa, okay? I won’t be long.”
She nods, not really listening, still absorbed by the lights outside. I press a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in her warmth, trying to fix this moment in my memory before the world changes again.
I grab my coat and slip quietly from the room, heart pounding, telling myself this is the right choice, even as a knot of guilt settles in my stomach. Whatever Arman wants, I need to hear it for myself—alone.
I make my way down the narrow hallway, passing the extra deadbolts and the sensor blinking quietly above the doorframe—a reminder that Konstantin’s trust in the outside world is gone, replaced by careful paranoia and layered locks. Even the little things, like the grainy camera nestled above the fire escape andthe coded keypad by the elevator, tell me he’s not taking any chances. Not with Mila here. Not with any of us.
I open the door, only to nearly bump into Maksim, who’s leaning against the wall just outside, arms crossed and pretending to study his phone. He straightens up, blocking my path in a way that’s almost casual—except nothing about Maksim is ever just casual. He’s been with Konstantin for years, loyal, built like a bouncer but sharp as glass beneath the rough edges.
“Going somewhere?” His tone is polite, but there’s an edge beneath it, the kind that says he’s been told to keep an eye on me—and he takes his job seriously.
I paste on a tired smile, shifting my bag a little higher on my shoulder. “Just running to the pharmacy. We’re out of Mila’s allergy medicine and I’d rather not drag her out this late. You know how she gets if I come back with the wrong gummies.”
Maksim hesitates, looking unconvinced, but he doesn’t push. Maybe it’s because I say Mila’s name, or maybe it’s just that he’s as tired as the rest of us. “Should I let Konstantin know you’ve left?”
I shake my head, already halfway to the elevator, keys jangling in my hand. “No need. I’ll be quick. If Mila asks, tell her I’ll bring back the good ice cream.”
He lets me go, but I can feel his eyes on my back until the elevator doors slide shut, his suspicion following me all the way down to the street.
Only once I’m outside, the night air sharp in my lungs and the city’s noise flooding my senses, do I let myself breathe. I slip into the crowd, blending with strangers.
The Astoria gleams under the city’s bruised sky, every window lit and every doorman’s uniform perfectly pressed, the kind of place where secrets are handled with velvet gloves and money erases questions before they’re asked. I cross the marble lobby, my boots echoing off the polished floor, feeling more like an intruder than a guest, my breath tight as I weave through the scent of cut flowers and expensive cologne. Crystal chandeliers hang overhead, making the world shimmer with old-world glamour, and I wonder how Arman always manages to find places like this—palaces disguised as hotels, fortresses behind courtesy.
I step into the elevator, pressing the button for the fifth floor with a hand that won’t stop shaking. The numbers light up, one by one, and as the floor rises beneath me, I slip into memory, carried backward by nerves and hope and fear.
I’m eight years old again, kneeling in the sun-bleached grass behind our apartment building, sweat stinging my eyes as I try to hold the wooden practice knife steady. Arman crouches beside me, his shadow falling across my knees, his voice low and patient.
