Page 35 of Bratva Bride
Anya doesn’t pity me. She just nods. “Then maybe you should be the one to say something first.”
I lift the glass to my lips, letting the wine sit there for a moment.
“Maybe,” I say.
Anya shifts slightly in her seat, pulling her legs beneath her as if we’re at a quiet café rather than one of the most exclusive restaurants on the bay. She rests her elbow on the back of the chair and studies me—not like she’s assessing or reading between lines, but like she’s just…present.
She picks up her glass again and takes a slow sip. “You and Viktor. You’re not exactly cut from the same cloth.”
I smirk. “That obvious?”
“Painfully,” she says. “He’s always five moves ahead. You, on the other hand…you seem like someone who wants the board flipped over altogether.”
That gets a short, quiet laugh from me. “Not wrong.”
“And yet,” she continues, “you’re playing the game. Coming to his club. Accepting lunch invitations. Sitting across from me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.”
I arch a brow. “Are you always this blunt?”
She smiles. “Only with people I like.”
I don’t respond right away. The truth is, I don’t know what to make of her.
“And your brother?”
“What about him?” she asks.
“Do you like working with him?” I realize that’s a bold question.
Anya watches me for a while, her head tilted. “He means well. But he’s the type who always assumes he knows what’s best.”
“That’s most men in power.”
“Exactly.” She lifts a brow. “And yet, here you are. Sitting quietly. Listening.”
I smirk, shaking my head. “Don’t mistake silence for sainthood.”
“No,” she says, eyes locked on mine. “But I do think you carry a heavier burden than most. You’re not as cold as you pretend to be.”
That catches me off guard more than it should. I sit back, running my finger along the rim of my glass. “You get all that from an hour of small talk and bread?”
“I watch people,” she says. “It’s a habit.”
“Bad or good?”
“Depends on who I’m watching.”
We fall quiet again, but it’s not awkward. I look out toward the bay, the slow churn of water beneath the restaurant, and the golden light stretching toward the edge of the horizon.
“Do you miss it?” she asks suddenly.
“Miss what?”
“The before. Whatever that looked like.”
The question lands harder than I expect. I think of nights at home when it was just the four of us, Nikolai giggling under the blanket, Mila insisting she’d grow up to be a ballerina and a spy. Nadya cooking with her hair in a messy knot, telling them bedtime stories that ended in threats if they didn’t brush their teeth. Those few short months, even though Nikolai’s sickness felt like a dream. I want that back in a heartbeat.
“Yeah,” I say. “I do.” I would do anything to get Nikolai back, and Nadya too.
