Page 7 of Bratva Bride
“Don’t just react, Nadya. Anticipate. You move before the danger comes, not after.”
He adjusts my grip, big hands careful and rough, guiding my fingers until the blade points true. “You’re small, so you use it. Surprise is your weapon, not strength. Remember that.”
Back then, he was my world’s center—the only one who could make me feel brave and invincible. No matter how many times I tripped or fumbled, he never raised his voice, just picked me up and set me right again.
Now, years later, the elevator doors slide open on the fifth floor, and I see him waiting in the hallway, just outside room 503. Arman is older, grayer at the temples, but there’s something unyielding about the way he stands, arms folded, every inch of him still solid and watchful. His gaze finds me the moment I step out, a flicker of relief and worry passing over his face before he smooths it away.
For a second, I just stand there, memories tangled up in the silence between us. Then, before I can stop myself, I walk straight into his arms, letting him fold me close the way he used to when I was a child. He holds me tight, one hand cupping the back of my head, his chin resting on my hair, and all at once the years fall away. I breathe in the scent of his aftershave, familiar and grounding, and the ache in my chest loosens for the first time in weeks.
“Ty moya devchonka,” he murmurs, the words rough and fond. My little girl.
I press my face to his shoulder, fighting tears, and manage a shaky laugh. “I’m not little anymore.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes scanning my face, taking in the shadows and lines, the scars of the past year. “No. But you’ll always be to me.”
Arman’s suite is exactly what I expect—plush carpet underfoot, velvet armchairs by the window, a tray of fruit and wine untouched on the coffee table. He’s always chosen places that wrap you in comfort but never quite let you forget who’s in charge. I sink into one of the chairs, only now realizing how tense my shoulders have been since I left the apartment.
Arman settles across from me, his eyes never quite leaving my face, cataloging every sign of exhaustion, every thread of worry I try to hide. For a while we sit in silence, the city stretching out beyond the glass behind him, lights blurring in the night.
“You look tired,” he says finally, his voice softer than I remember. “I should have come sooner.”
I shake my head, managing a small smile. “I almost called a hundred times. I just didn’t know what to say. Or how much I could ask for.”
He shrugs, lips curving at the corners, a gentleness in his eyes that makes him look younger. “You ask. You’re family. That’s all that matters.”
The words settle between us, familiar and strange all at once. I glance at my hands, trying to collect myself, feeling the weight of all the questions pressing at my tongue.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice lowering. “You didn’t just call for comfort, Nadya. You’re not that girl anymore. Tell me what’s happened. Tell me everything about Nikolai.”
His tone is gentle but unyielding, the way it always was when I was a child, an invitation and a command at the same time. I find myself telling him everything, the words spilling out—the night of the massacre, the smoke and confusion, the way Nikolai vanished without a trace, the dead ends, the people we’ve questioned, Konstantin’s spiraling anger, Mila’s haunted silence. I don’t leave anything out, not even my fears—the ones I haven’t voiced to anyone.
Arman listens without interruption, his gaze growing darker with every detail. When I finally finish, my throat raw and mychest hollow, he reaches over and lays his hand over mine, warm and grounding.
“We’ll get him back,” he says quietly, the old certainty in his voice. “I promise you, devchonka. But you must trust me—and you must be careful. Whoever took Nikolai knew exactly what they were doing.”
I pull my hand back, blinking hard. “What do you mean, whoever took Nikolai? We know it was Alexei,” I say, letting my frustration bleed through. “He’s the one responsible for the massacre, for everything that’s happened to us. He did it because he was Dmitry’s bastard, because he wanted to prove himself. There’s nothing left to figure out.”
Arman watches me quietly for a moment, his expression unreadable, as if he’s measuring my certainty against something heavier. “I’ve heard all about him,” he says, voice even, but his eyes narrow slightly, skeptical. “The kid with nothing to lose, scraping for approval, always in someone else’s shadow. Nadya, I don’t think he has the guts—or the reach—to do this on his own. A job like this, the timing, the scale, the resources it would take to pull it off and vanish without a trace? That’s not the work of an angry son with a grudge. Not unless he’s got someone powerful backing him.”
A cold, uncertain pressure settles in my chest. I shake my head, more out of stubbornness than clarity. “What are you saying? That Alexei isn’t the real threat? That there’s someone else, someone we haven’t seen coming?”
He glances toward the window, jaw tight, as if he’s already several moves ahead, unwilling to tip his hand until he’s certain. “I’m saying you need to think bigger. Someone gave Alexei his orders, or at the very least, gave him cover. There are playersin this city who would benefit from Konstantin’s world burning down. Some of them are old enemies. Some are closer than you think.”
My mind races, anger tangled with fear, images of Nikolai’s empty bed flashing behind my eyes. “So who do we trust?”
Arman looks back at me, gaze unwavering. “Right now? Just each other. Until I know more, you watch everyone. Even the ones you think you know. Especially them.”
His words settle over me like a shroud, heavy and impossible to shake. For the first time since the massacre, I realize just how alone we are.
4
KONSTANTIN
The apartment issilent when Nadya finally returns. She doesn’t speak to me, and I don’t follow her. Her earlier words linger like an echo in my mind, impossible to silence. She trusts Viktor enough to consider going to him, and though I can’t pinpoint exactly why, the thought unsettles me deeply.
Sleep is out of the question. Instead, I plant myself in front of my laptop, the glow of the screen the only light in the study, the rest of the apartment faded into a blur of city lights and restless thoughts.
I start with the basics: Viktor Sokolov, owner of the so-called grand casino, a man who’s kept himself out of the gossip pages and the police logs with a discipline I almost respect. His face appears in half a dozen photographs—always dressed for the part, tailored suits, that easy smile, silver hair never out of place. There are few official records, but plenty of whispers—his rise through the Moscow underground, the way he sidestepped blood feuds by turning enemies into business partners, never letting himself get drawn into a war he couldn’t win.
