Page 76 of Bratva Bride
Viktor’s eyes don’t leave mine. “You should. Arman made a deal with the Veles syndicate a few years back. Smuggling, weapons, intel. At first it worked for him. Then a police raid cost the Veles millions. They blamed Arman, he barely got out alive. He’s been hiding in Europe, always moving. Until now.”
The information settles in, heavy and ugly. “What the hell is Veles?”
Viktor’s voice drops lower. “A network that calls itself after an old Slavic god, but in reality, it’s arms dealers, mercenaries, traffickers. The kind of people who vanish witnesses and erase debts with bullets.”
My grip on the phone tightens. “You found all this out already?”
He gives a satisfied, knowing smile. “I have my sources. You know how it is, brother. Money talks, and fear talks louder.”
The weight of it presses down. My wife’s secrets, the men in her orbit, the dangerous old names coming back to my city—none of it by accident. I know I can’t ignore this. Not with the whole world watching, waiting to see if I’ll finally lose control.
I slip Viktor’s phone back to him, my mind racing with what he’s just told me. Before I can process it all, Anya appears at my side, her expression careful, eyes searching mine.
“Rough night?” she asks, a half smile ghosting her lips.
I force a small smirk, trying to shake off the tension. “That’s one way to put it.”
She glances at the crowd. “People are watching you, Kon. They always do, but tonight it’s different. Show them what matters.”
For a moment, I just stare at her, uncertain. But then I spot Mila at the edge of the dance floor, her eyes bright and hopeful, little shoes tapping restlessly against the marble. I nod to Anya and make my way to Mila, crouching so we’re eye level.
She beams at me, slipping her small hand into mine. “Papa, can we dance?”
I take her in my arms, and for the next few minutes, the world shrinks to just the two of us. Her laughter is pure, untroubled, and as we spin beneath the chandelier, the other dancers fade away. Mila throws her head back, giggling as I twirl her, and for the first time tonight, I remember what all this is supposed to be for. By the end, she hugs my neck, breathless and proud, and I kiss her hair, promising we’ll dance again soon.
We leave soon after, the car waiting at the curb, engine humming quietly. Mila settles in between us, sleep already tugging at her eyes. Nadya sits with her arms folded tight, staring out the window, her silence colder than anything else I’ve felt tonight.
For a while, the only sound is the city drifting by, the steady pulse of traffic lights and distant music. I want to speak, to ask her for answers, but not here, not with Mila’s small head heavy on my arm. Eventually, I say, voice tight but controlled, “We can talk when we get home.” I keep my tone restrained, fighting the urge to turn this into another public battle.
Nadya turns her face just enough for me to see her profile in the dim light. “Alexei is in the city,” she says, low and certain.
I feel my pulse quicken, suspicion rising. “How would you know that?” I ask, unable to keep the edge from my voice.
Before she can answer, the car jolts, braking hard enough that Mila stirs and Nadya’s hand grips the seat. We’re not at the house yet—the street outside is dark, unfamiliar. I lean forward, trying to see past the driver. “Why are we stopping?” I demand.
Nadya frowns, eyes wide and alert now. “We’re not home yet…”
I reach for the door, every instinct going cold, my mind racing. Whatever’s happening, it isn’t part of the plan. The street outside is too dark, too empty. I slide a protective arm around Mila, my other hand moving automatically to my jacket, searching for the weight of my gun.
Something is wrong. I see the driver’s head tilt, as if he’s hearing something over the earpiece, but the next second the windshield erupts in a spiderweb of cracks—a hail of bullets slamming into the glass, splintering it but not shattering it completely. The glass is reinforced, but only to a point.
Mila screams. Nadya pulls her down, curling her own body over our daughter’s head, not even hesitating. The driver shouts into the radio, then slumps, a spray of red misting across the dashboard. The car lists, tires spinning helplessly, then dies with a final cough.
I push the door open with my shoulder, dragging Mila with me. “Out!” I snarl, already hearing footsteps—heavy, boots crunching glass and gravel. Nadya bursts out after me, shielding Mila with her body as if she’s done this a hundred times. Maybe she has.
Shouts ring out in the night, voices sharp with adrenaline, the scrape of weapons and the stutter of automatic fire filling the air.I shove Mila beneath the car, pressing her tight against the axle. “Don’t move,” I whisper, meeting her terrified eyes. “No matter what, you stay here.”
I straighten, weapon up, as the first attacker comes into view—a mountain of a man, face twisted with old rage and fresh pain. It takes me half a heartbeat to recognize him. Kirov. I remember the last time I saw him—bloodied, humiliated, and swearing vengeance. Tonight, he looks even worse. His left arm is strapped tight to his chest, an ugly scar runs down one side of his jaw, and his right eye is milky with old damage. But his other hand holds a gun, and his hate burns undimmed.
“Konstantin,” he spits, voice raw. “Did you miss me?”
I fire first, two rounds snapping out. He ducks behind the ruined hood of another car, and suddenly the whole street explodes into movement—men pouring out of the shadows, guns and pipes and knives glinting under the sickly yellow streetlights.
I drop one with a clean shot to the shoulder, pivoting as two more charge me from the left. The world shrinks to noise and muscle memory—the boom of my gun, the crunch of bone, the heat of someone’s breath as I slam my fist into their teeth.
I see Nadya, a blur of red and black, as she rolls over the hood of a parked car, grabbing a length of pipe from the gutter and swinging it up into the chin of an attacker twice her size. He staggers, gurgling blood, and she doesn’t hesitate—she kicks off the car again, launching herself feet-first into his chest, sending him crashing backward over a bench.
I fire at another shape, only to find my magazine empty. I duck as a blade slashes past my ear. I grab the man’s wrist, twisting hard until he screams and drops the knife. Another attackercomes from behind. I use the first man as a shield, slamming him backward, then throw him into the second with enough force to drop them both. My hands are slick with sweat and blood.
