Page 62 of Bratva Bride
Viktor leans in, voice colder than the river. “End it. Send him the message.”
The truth is, I’m not even angry now. I just want it finished. I want the city to swallow her and this whole night with it. I want Alexei to feel what it means to lose even the things he threw away.
Ivana’s still pleading, her words dissolving into the rush of water below us. I tighten my grip on her arms, force her to meet my eyes one last time, searching for any reason to stop. There’s nothing. She’s empty now, nothing left to give, not even hope.
Viktor’s hand digs into my back, urging me forward. I let out a breath, feeling nothing, and shove her—hard—over the railing. Her scream rips through the night, swallowed instantly by the river’s black maw. There’s a splash, then silence, then nothing at all.
Viktor’s hand stays on my shoulder, heavy and approving. “He’ll hear about it by morning,” he says, voice quiet, certain. “He’ll know what it means.”
I stare down at the place where she vanished, the city rolling on, indifferent. The water takes her, and I let it.
19
NADYA
The safe housefeels smaller with every passing day. I’m not allowed to leave, not with the risks stacking up outside the door, but even here—surrounded by neutral walls and bolted locks—there’s no real sense of safety. Arman sits on the edge of the armchair, elbows on his knees, a half-drunk glass of water on the table beside him. He hasn’t touched it in an hour. Katya’s in the kitchen, going through the medication logs. Rifat’s duffel bag is half-zipped by the coat rack, forgotten, like so many things lately.
“We need to revisit Ludmila’s claim,” Arman mutters. “She says it wasn’t just Alexei—she claims someone else is feeding him intel from the Bratva. Someone close to Konstantin.”
“She’s playing a game,” I say, but even I don’t know if it’s to bait us or save herself. “You’ve secured her location?”
Arman nods. “Double-shifted. I trust them.”
I don’t. But I let it go. We don’t have the luxury of splintering now.
He exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Still think she doesn’t break under pressure?”
“I think she knows just enough to stay alive. And not a word more.” I look down at the table, at the old, chipped teacup I’ve been nursing all morning, and I catch movement in the hallway.
Tiny feet. Bare. Light tapping on the floor.
Then Mila’s voice, chirping out with innocent delight. “Mama! Look what I found!”
The words don’t register—until I look up and see her.
She’s standing near the hallway, smiling, both hands wrapped awkwardly around something long, heavy, and black.
A gun.
My body goes still. Cold crashes through my spine like ice water.
“Mila,” I whisper, forcing my voice calm even as everything inside me screams. “Where did you get that?”
She lifts it higher, struggling under the weight, wobbling slightly as she adjusts her grip. “It was under the big bag,” she says, pointing toward the coat rack. Rifat’s duffel. “I thought it was a toy.”
I rise slowly, pulse pounding against my ribs, hands out, gentle. “Sweetheart…you need to stay very, very still.”
Arman curses under his breath, frozen halfway between the chair and the floor. His eyes are locked on the safety—probably still on, but neither of us is willing to bet my daughter’s life onprobably.
“It’s really heavy,” Mila says again, straining under the weight, her small fingers now dangerously close to the trigger guard.
I inch forward. “I believe you, baby. You’re doing so well. Just put it down on the floor for me. Slowly.”
“I didn’t mean to be bad.”
“You’re not bad, Mila,” I say, my voice shaking now despite every effort to keep it even. “You’re perfect. Just lower it. Both hands. Nice and easy.”
Her face puckers with confusion, sensing something is wrong but not understanding the danger. Still, she obeys. She crouches slowly, arms trembling, and places the gun on the carpeted floor like it’s something sacred. I lunge the moment it leaves her hands, scooping her up, pulling her against me, burying my face in her hair as I hold her tight. My whole body’s shaking.
