Page 58 of Bratva Bride
The words punch straight through the thin armor I’ve kept around my heart all day. I swallow hard, forcing my voice to stay calm.
I brush her hair back from her forehead, tucking a strand behind her ear. “I know you miss them,” I whisper. “I do too. More than anything.”
Her lower lip trembles. “Is it because I wasn’t good?” She says it so softly I almost can’t hear her.
“No, Mila.” I pull her into my arms, feeling her ribs beneath the cotton of her pajama top. “You are perfect. None of this is your fault. Papa loves you, Nikolai loves you, Irina loves you.Sometimes grown-ups have to fix big problems, and it can take a little while.”
“A little while feels forever,” she murmurs against my shoulder.
Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them back. “I know it does. But Papa will be with us soon.”
“Promise?” she asks, voice small.
I kiss the top of her head. “Promise.” My voice cracks on the word, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She loosens her grip on the rabbit, nestling deeper under the blanket. I keep my hand on her back, feeling each slow inhale, each soft exhale, until her breathing evens and the tension leaves her limbs.
Only when she’s asleep do I let the tears fall—silent, hot, disappearing into the darkness before they can touch her dreams.
I shut Mila’s door with a quiet click and let the hallway breathe out its silence. The small townhouse smells like lavender soap and something simmering from dinner. When I step into the living room, Pyotr is still planted in the armchair near the balcony, one ankle resting on his knee like he owns the place. Rifat is gone.
“I sent him packing,” my father says, not looking up from the notebook in his lap.
“He hates your guts,” I reply, crossing my arms.
Pyotr shrugs once. “I don’t care. Your husband is scarier.”
“I can arrange for Konstantin to visit,” I mutter, but my sarcasm lands flat. I’m too tired for this dance. “If you’re done antagonizing bodyguards, you can leave.”
“I will,” he says. “But there’s something you need to see first.”
He taps the notebook—mynotebook—the one I keep jammed in my bag with half-drawn maps and scribbled leads. My pulse spikes. “You went through my things?”
“I wasn’t trying to snoop,” he says, flipping it open to a page of frantic sketches. “This symbol caught my eye.”
I take a step forward despite myself. There it is—the coiling serpent wrapped around a dagger, the same mark I glimpsed on the arms of the men who tried to grab us outside the ice-cream shop. My throat goes tight.
“You know what it is?” I ask, voice thinner than I want.
Pyotr nods slowly. “It’s an omen. An old myth among the northern brigades.”
“What myth?”
He leans back, fingers laced over his stomach, eyes distant as if he’s slipped years into the past. “They called itKol’tso Zmei—the Ring Serpent. Legend says the serpent appears only when a blood debt is declared.”
“I don’t understand.”
His eyes darken, the lines around them deepening. “It’s a Bratva crest, Nadya. It belongs to the Veles family—one of the oldest, most feared clans on this side of the world. Their name alone sends chills through anyone who’s heard it. Their influence spans generations, borders—continents. They strike deals in whispers, and seal them in blood.”
My throat feels suddenly dry. “You think they’re here? In LA?”
“No,” he says softly. “They wouldn’t need to be. If you’ve seen their mark, it means they’ve put out a hit—against you, against Konstantin. Buryakov is the strongest Bratva name in the city. This war between your husband and Alexei…it’s not just personal. It’s not just about Nikolai. Alexei took the boy to weaken Konstantin’s hold, to show vulnerability.”
“Do you think Alexei asked for their help?” I ask.
“If he did, he’s a fool,” Pyotr says. His voice lowers, rough and grave. “The Veles are masters at exploiting fractures. This serpent isn’t just a warning. It’s their declaration that your family is now a target.”
I stand frozen, heart racing, the notebook heavy in my hands. “Then we fight.”
He rises slowly, his face shadowed in the dim light. “If you do, understand this—the Veles don’t wage wars they aren’t certain they can win. And when they strike, it’s swift, brutal, and final.”
