Page 82 of Bratva Bride
There’s a pause, then his reply comes, firm and without hesitation. “That won’t be a problem. I’m out of that team now…after Katya.”
A wave of guilt hits me so hard I almost hang up. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I shouldn’t bother you with this.”
He lets the silence stretch for a moment, then his tone softens. “Are you in trouble, Nadya?”
I can’t bring myself to answer. Not really. I swallow hard, the words sticking in my throat.
He sighs quietly. “Meet me at the restaurant on Levitsky. Tomorrow, eight in the morning. Don’t be late.”
The call ends, and I sit there in the dark for a long time, the phone heavy in my hand, Mila’s small form curled behind me.The city feels even bigger now, the night thick with secrets. But at least, for the first time in days, I have a direction.
The restaurant is nearly empty this early, just the faint clatter of plates in the kitchen and a waitress sleepily refilling coffee cups. Dimas sits in the far corner, away from the window, face shadowed by a cap. I slide into the booth across from him, my nerves tight, hands knotted together in my lap.
We talk for a few minutes, just small words and the kind of careful questions old friends use when everything else feels too dangerous. Then I finally ask what I came for. “Dimas, what really happened that night?”
He sighs, running a hand over his jaw. “It was chaos. Arman called the shots, kept everyone focused on Ludmila. Katya got pinned down—she could have been pulled out, but Arman wouldn’t let anyone break formation. He left her, Nadya. The rest of us were just trying to get out alive.”
His voice cracks, anger and grief buried deep. “And now Katya is dead. The worst part? No one’s even mourning her. Not after everything she did for the team. They just moved on, like she never mattered.”
Guilt claws at me. I press my fingers to my eyes. “I’m sorry, Dimas. I should have been there. I should have done more.”
He shakes his head gently. “It’s not your fault. I heard you had your own battles to fight.”
I look down at the scratched surface of the table, my voice barely audible. “I should have taken out Alexei. If I had, Katya might still be alive. This one is on me.”
Dimas frowns, leaning in, his eyes steady on mine. “Alexei wasn’t there, Nadya. He sent his men, but he wasn’t at the warehouse himself.”
I sit quietly, the words stuck behind my teeth. Dimas watches me for a moment, his patience gentle but unyielding.
“What did you want to talk about, Nadya?” he asks, his voice softer now.
I swallow, reach into my bag, and slide Kirov’s battered phone across the table. “I found this,” I say. “It’s unlocked, but I can’t make head or tail out of it. The data is mostly encrypted, or hidden. I need you to look at it. Please.”
He picks up the phone, studying it with a frown. “Where did you get this?”
“From Kirov, during the chaos,” I answer, my fingers twisting in my lap. “There are messages, locations, maybe contacts—I don’t know. But—” I stop, the breath hitching in my throat. “Dimas, I need to know if Nikolai is still alive.”
The table feels too small for the weight of what I’m asking. I meet his gaze, my heart pounding in my chest, hope and fear knotted together so tightly it hurts to breathe.
Dimas props open his laptop, connecting the phone with practiced fingers. I watch him work, my heart hammering out a nervous, relentless beat. His eyes flicker as lines of code scroll across the screen, the only sounds the quiet click of keys and the distant hum of the restaurant.
I hug myself, trying to keep from trembling, desperate for news, for hope, for anything that isn’t more silence and loss.
The minutes crawl by. I watch his coffee grow cold, watch the pale light shift on the linoleum floor.
At last, after what feels like a lifetime, Dimas exhales, shoulders loosening. “Got something.” He angles the screen so I can see. A string of coordinates flashes on a map overlay, centered on the river’s industrial strip. “Abandoned cargo ship,” he says. “Moored five kilometers downstream. No registered crew, no transponder. Somebody’s using it as a blind spot.”
“Is there proof he was there?” My voice shakes.
Dimas opens a folder. A recent photo flickers onto the screen—a dim interior shot, steel bulkheads streaked with rust. In the corner, on a stained mattress, sits a boy—knees drawn to his chest, wrists zip-tied. The picture is grainy, but the profile, the dark hair, the angle of his jaw—my heart cracks. “Nikolai,” I whisper.
“There’s more,” Dimas says, scrolling. “Text logs confirm deliveries—food, blankets—marked for ‘the kid.’ Timestamps no older than two days.”
Relief surges and dies just as quickly. Dimas rubs a hand over his face. “But…”
“But what?” I snap.
He looks at me, concern clear. “It could be a trap. Whoever sent those messages knew Kirov might fall. They could expect someone to come running. You should take backup.”
