Page 85 of Bratva Bride
I close my eyes, letting exhaustion drag me under. For the first time in weeks, I don’t dream about Nadya or my father or Nikolai. There’s just a blankness, deep and cold, like the bottom of the river.
When I open my eyes, it’s to a shadow looming over me. Viktor stands there, perfectly composed, as if he’s been watching me the whole night. He presses a cold gun into my hand, the weight familiar, grounding.
“It’s time,” Viktor says, his voice flat and certain. “To get the city back.”
25
NADYA
I kneelon the faded rug in my childhood bedroom, the first watery light of morning painting the walls pale and uncertain. My hands shake as I braid Mila’s hair, the small motions grounding me, helping me pretend that everything is still normal. Mila sits between my knees, humming quietly, her fingers tangled in the edge of her dress. She doesn’t understand what’s coming, and I don’t have the strength to tell her everything. Not yet.
When I finish, I turn her gently so she faces me, brushing a stray curl from her forehead. I force a smile, but it trembles at the corners. “Mila, sweetheart, I have to go out for a little while,” I say, my voice soft and careful. “You’ll stay here with Dedushka. He’s going to look after you, just like he always does.”
She looks up at me, eyes round and questioning. “Will you be back for dinner?”
I nod, swallowing the ache in my throat. “I’ll do my very best. But if I can’t…if I don’t make it back tonight, you listen to Dedushka, all right? He knows what to do.”
Her lower lip wobbles. “Are you going somewhere scary?”
I want to lie, but I can’t. I hug her tightly, breathing in the scent of her hair, memorizing the weight of her in my arms. “I have to do something brave,” I whisper. “But I love you, Mila. No matter what happens. That’s the most important thing to remember, okay?”
She nods, clinging to me, small arms squeezing hard. “I love you too, Mama. Please come back.”
I blink back tears and pull away, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Always,” I promise, even though I don’t know if I can keep it.
I rise, steadying myself. Pyotr watches from the doorway, worry etched deep into his face, but he doesn’t say a word. I grab my coat and the battered phone, every movement heavy with dread and determination. For Mila, I have to do this. Even if I never come back, I need her to know I tried.
One last look, one last promise, then I slip out the door, praying that I’m not saying goodbye for the last time.
The city’s edge dissolves into wasteland as I drive. Weeds claw up through the broken asphalt, chain-link fences rusted and sagging where no one bothers to check anymore. The river stinks, slick with oil, old currents whispering secrets to the crumbling hulls left to rot on the banks. I pull the battered car off the road, gravel crunching beneath the tires, and kill the engine. For a long moment I just sit there, the silence pressing in, heart pounding loud enough to drown out every sensible thought.
The ship rises up ahead, enormous and black, its paint peeling in long strips to reveal pitted metal beneath. The gangway hangs crooked, creaking as the wind pushes it back and forth. A seagull wheels overhead, crying out into the empty sky, and the echobounces from steel and broken glass. The vessel’s name is barely legible, letters half-faded by sun and rain, the bow scarred and dented from years of neglect.
Trash clings to the waterline, caught in the oily film that coats everything. Old ropes and broken pallets litter the dock, the smell of diesel sharp enough to sting my nose. I grip the phone in my pocket, thumb running over the cracked screen, the image of Nikolai’s terrified face burning in my mind.
The air is colder here, emptier. Each footfall rings out across the boards of the gangway, the metal groaning beneath my weight. My pulse thuds harder. No one should be here, not now, not in this forgotten corner of the city. Every instinct screams at me to turn back, but I force myself forward, hand closed tight around a blade hidden in my sleeve.
Graffiti covers the side of the ship, angry letters and symbols half washed away by time. I slip past an open door into the belly of the vessel. Inside, the darkness is nearly total. My footsteps echo in the hollow space, dust dancing in the shaft of daylight from a jagged hole overhead. The smell is worse here, rust, old oil, a faint tang of urine and stale cigarette smoke.
I scan the hull, searching for a way in that doesn’t leave me exposed. The main gangway is too obvious, every instinct warning me against stepping into the open. My eyes catch a stack of rusted shipping containers pressed against the ship’s side, a broken ladder dangling from the upper deck, its rungs missing in the middle.
I scan the hull for handholds, broken rails, exposed bolts, chains dangling from the rigging. My body moves before my mind can catch up, muscle memory taking over. I leap, fingers catching the lip of an old loading hatch, my boots bracing against the slickmetal. The cold bites into my palms, but I grit my teeth and pull myself up.
A ledge runs along the side of the ship, thick with grime. I swing out, gripping a ladder that wobbles beneath my weight, climbing quickly before it gives way. At the top, I hop onto the narrow gangway, crouched low, breath misting in the dim light. The wood creaks and shudders underfoot, but I move quickly, balancing on the balls of my feet. Years of practice—years of escape—have made my movements quiet, sure, efficient.
I swing over a gap in the planks, landing softly on a mound of decaying rope. A section of railing has broken away, but I don’t hesitate. I back up, sprint, and vault across the open space, catching myself on the far edge, my legs scraping but my grip steady. My heart hammers, but fear sharpens my focus, fuels my strength.
Above me, an old crane juts out into the air. I climb onto its base, using the crossbeams to reach the next deck, every muscle burning, every movement silent and swift. I keep my head low, eyes darting for shadows, ears straining for any sign of life or threat.
I move through the ship, every sense straining. The air is heavy, thick with the stench of rust and old oil. The walls close in as I go deeper, my boots slipping on grime and broken glass. My knife is warm in my palm, my gun cold against my ribs. I pray under my breath—one word for each step I take.
The silence here is unnatural. My own breath sounds too loud. The echo of my footsteps makes my skin crawl. I pass rooms with doors ripped off their hinges, mattresses rotting in corners, old newspapers scattered everywhere. Rats scurry in the shadows. Somewhere, water drips, steady and relentless.
I check every corner, gun first. No sign of life. Every room looks the same—filthy, empty, forgotten. My heart beats faster the deeper I go, pounding in my ears. My hands sweat around the knife. Every time the ship creaks, I freeze, certain I’m not alone.
I follow the route Dimas mapped out, down another set of stairs, metal groaning beneath my weight. I have to crouch low in one corridor, ducking under a fallen pipe. My nerves are shot, but I don’t stop. I can’t. My son might be behind the next door.
At the bottom, the air gets colder, the smell worse.
