Page 81 of Bratva Bride
A man’s voice—Alexei, I’m sure—rasps, “You know what to do if they come. No mistakes. The boy goes first. The mother can watch. End it if you have to.”
I gasp, bile rising in my throat, and clutch the phone tighter. I scroll back, memorizing the coordinates, burning the images into my mind.
Nikolai is alive. They’re planning something, and I have just enough of a head start to do something about it.
Pyotr returns, the old mug steaming in his hands. He sets it down gently on the bedside table, careful not to wake Mila. His tired eyes search my face, and I know he’s waiting for a sign—any sign—that I’ll let him take care of this, that I’ll let him pull me and Mila out of the fire one more time.
“I’ll book the tickets,” he says softly, sitting beside me. “Morning train, even if we have to buy new names to do it. We’ll disappear, start over somewhere else. It’s safest.”
I shake my head, voice coming out steadier than I feel. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I expect him to have more questions, to give me a look of pure disbelief. I expect him to think that I’ve finally lost it.
Instead, he says softly, “You’ve always known your mind, Nadya. I trust you.”
His words catch me off guard, so simple and true they almost break me. I blink away the sting of tears and nod, grateful beyond measure for his quiet faith in me.
Mila stirs in her sleep, curling closer to the pillow. Pyotr lays a gentle hand on her back, then squeezes my shoulder. “Whatever you need, you have it.”
I don’t tell him about the phone hidden beneath the blanket, about what I found or what I plan to do. Some burdens are mine alone, and for now, his calm acceptance is all the comfort I need.
I push the soup aside, barely tasting the warmth drifting up from the bowl. My thoughts whirl, but I force myself to look at my father, to say the words that have been burning inside me since that car ride.
“I found out about Arman,” I tell him, my voice barely above a whisper. “His connection to the Veles. He was branded.”
Pyotr sighs, rubbing a tired hand over his face. “I’m not surprised,” he says finally. His voice is soft, but there’s a heaviness to it, as if some old burden has settled again on his shoulders. “Your mother was heartbroken when he left the continent, you know. She never talked about it, but I always thought there was something he wasn’t telling us.”
I bite my lip.
“He grew rich overnight. Expensive gifts, new cars, all those stories about ‘business’ in Serbia and Hungary. I thought it was just luck.” Pyotr shakes his head, his eyes dark with regret. “No one gets that lucky, Nadya. Not in our world.”
I watch the city from the window, the lights blurred by exhaustion and too many tears. Pyotr lingers in the doorway for a moment, then quietly leaves me alone, the sound of his slippers fading down the hall. I press my forehead to the cool glass, searching for calm in the black sweep of sky, but the fear and resolve in my chest only tangle tighter.
I turn back to the room. “Papa,” I call softly, “do you have a spare phone I can use?”
He appears in the doorway again, frowning, then disappears into the kitchen. After a minute, he returns and presses a battered old phone into my palm. “It still works. The charger is in the drawer.”
I thank him. He leaves me to my thoughts and the hush of the sleeping apartment.
I sit at the little desk and scroll through the menu, the plastic worn smooth from years of use. I wonder for a moment where Konstantin is, what he’s doing out there in the city—if he’s hunting, hurting, or just as lost as I am.
Something tugs at the edge of my mind, a fragment of conversation from earlier in the night. A number. I dial it, heart thumping as I try to recall the last digit. The phone rings, crackling, and finally a groggy voice answers.
“Who’s this?” Tatiana says, thick with sleep.
“Tatiana? It’s Nadya,” I reply, relief flooding me even as my hands shake.
“Nadya? What time is it? Whose number is this?” She sounds more awake, suspicion blooming in her voice.
“That’s not important. There’s something you mentioned tonight…”
I close my eyes, words spilling out quietly, knowing this is the first step in something new.
When I end the call with Tatiana, I stare down at the battered phone, my thumb trembling over the keypad. The apartment is silent except for the faint hum of the city beyond the glass. I know what I have to do next, even if every instinct in me screams to hide.
I find Dimas’s number and call. The phone rings a few times before he answers, his voice tired but steady. “Hello?”
“It’s Nadya,” I say quietly. “I need your help. But first—can I trust you, Dimas? You can’t talk to Rifat about this. Promise me.”
