Page 63 of Bratva Bride
Katya runs in, sees the weapon, and gasps. Arman moves fast, grabbing the gun, flipping the safety and checking the chamber. “Loaded,” he mutters. “Fully.”
I stare at Rifat’s bag, hatred simmering in my chest like boiling oil.
“She could’ve died,” I whisper.
“She didn’t,” Arman replies, low, grim. “You got to her in time.”
“Not because of anything we did right,” I snap. “Because of luck. That’s it.”
Mila clings to me now, small hands tangled in my hair. “I’m sorry, Mama.”
“No, sweetheart. No, no. You didn’t do anything wrong,” I whisper fiercely. “That wasn’t your fault.”
But the truth gnaws at me. We’ve filled our lives with men like Rifat, weapons stuffed into duffels and forgotten under coats, danger tucked into corners like it belongs there.
I press a kiss to her temple and squeeze her tighter, swearing silently to whatever gods still listen—this will not happen again.
I will burn this world down before it touches my daughter again.
The door to the balcony creaks as I step out into the dusk.
The air smells like old concrete and city grime, and something metallic still clings to the back of my throat—fear, maybe. My hands are gripping the railing so tightly my knuckles ache. From this height, the city feels like a different country, one that doesn’t know me, that doesn’t care what happened just minutes ago inside these walls.
I try to breathe. I can’t.
Inside, Mila is safe.
But the image won’t leave me—the gun in her hands, the weight of it against her chest, her tiny fingers so close to disaster. My stomach turns over again, and I press a palm to it, grounding myself.
I hear the door open behind me, soft footsteps. Arman.
He doesn’t say anything right away. Just steps up beside me, not too close, the way someone does when they know you’re shaking and trying not to show it.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” I murmur, eyes still locked on the skyline.
He stands close, but not touching, the way you do when you aren’t sure if comfort will be accepted or flung back in your face.
He exhales, a frustrated sigh. “Pyotr must have left the gun in her reach. He’s always moving things around, thinks he’s being helpful. I did warn against his presence in the apartment.” His voice is tight, defensive, like he’s trying to convince both of us.
I turn, hands still white-knuckled on the rail. I can’t hide the tremor in my jaw, or the accusation in my eyes. “Do you have to blame him for everything, Arman?” I ask quietly, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “We both know it’s Rifat’s gun. His bag. His mess.”
He bristles, jaw twitching. “I’m just saying Pyotr?—”
I cut him off. “No. I’m tired of excuses.” My voice comes out more brittle than I intend, but I let it stand. “We are surrounded by guns and men who think they’re invincible. Mila isn’t.”
He looks away, rubbing his temples, the city’s neon painting tired lines across his face. “You’re right,” he mutters after a moment. “It shouldn’t have happened. I should’ve checked the bag myself.”
I want to tell him it’s not just one mistake, that it’s the sum of all of them, every gun left half-cocked in the hallway, every moment of carelessness justified by stress or exhaustion or the myth that we’re always in control. I want to scream that I nearly lost everything in a single stupid moment.
But I don’t. I just stand there, letting the night settle around us, brittle and raw. “You can’t fix this by blaming someone else,” Isay, my voice almost a whisper. “Just promise me we’ll never be this careless again.”
“Okay,” he says after a while.
The city below is alive, restless, and I watch the light spill and scatter in a hundred directions, none of them leading home. I’m still trying to piece myself back together when Arman clears his throat. I sense him working up to something, the set of his shoulders tense.
He speaks quietly, words meant only for me and the night. “Your husband’s gone insane, you know that, don’t you?” He tries to keep it casual, but the gravity seeps through. “Word on the street is that he’s telling anyone who’ll listen that he took Ludmila himself. That…does take the heat off us, at least for now.”
I absorb this, watching the headlights stutter along the distant overpass, wondering just how much of it is true, how much is calculated, and how much is simply desperation.
