Page 6 of Bratva Bride
Dmitry's thumb pressed against my shoulder blade, finding the knot of tension there. He didn't speak. Didn't need to. Just applied steady pressure, working the muscle like he knew exactly where it hurt.
The timer went off.
Alexei poured three cups with steady hands. The porcelain was translucent in the kitchenette's fluorescent light, the blue flowers seeming to float in the white. Steam rose from each cup. The scent filled the small space—bitter, complex, exactly right.
He brought them over. Handed one to Dmitry. Placed one in my shaking hands. Kept one for himself.
We didn't speak. Just stood there—me sitting, them flanking me like bodyguards—and drank the tea Babushka Nina had taught us to make.
The bitter warmth hit my tongue. I closed my eyes. Focused on the taste. The shaking began to subside. Not gone. Just . . . less. Manageable.
Alexei collected the cups when we finished, rinsed them carefully in the sink, dried them with the dish towel, placed them back in the wooden box with the reverence they deserved. The wolf etched on the lid caught the fluorescent light.
"The Council called," he said quietly, still facing the sink. "Emergency meeting in four hours. All five families."
"We need options before that meeting," I said. My voice was steadier now. The analytical part of my brain coming back online. "And hopefully someone to pin this on."
"We need you functional," Alexei countered. "Eat something. Shower. You're no use to anyone like this."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to go back to the war room, back to the monitors, back to finding the detail I'd missed. But he was right. Strategic thinking required fuel. Rest. Basic maintenance I'd been ignoring for three days.
"Two hours," I conceded. "Then we plan."
Alexei nodded. "Two hours. Clara's making breakfast. Real food, not whatever cold takeout you've been ignoring."
"Then we strategize," Dmitry added. "Figure out who's responsible for this clusterfuck. And how to make sure the Council knows it wasn't us."
"Three families will already assume we're guilty," I said. The calculations were already running. "The Morozovs will push that narrative regardless of evidence. The Kozlovs will use it as leverage."
"We'll handle it," Alexei said firmly. “Like always.”
AfterforcingdownfoodClara brought—eggs, toast, bacon I barely tasted—and standing under scalding water until my muscles unclenched, I returned to the war room dressed in fresh clothes that felt foreign against my skin. Clean suit, charcoal gray. Pressed shirt. I'd shaved. Looked almost human in the mirror.
The monitors flickered back to life at my touch. I opened a new analysis framework. Intelligence gathering on all five families attending the Council meeting.
The Volkovs—us. I knew our strengths and weaknesses intimately. Knew Alexei's protective instincts could be exploited. Knew Dmitry's rage could be triggered. Knew my own anxiety made me vulnerable to manipulation if someone understood how to push.
The Kozlovs. Brutal. Unpredictable. Ruled through fear rather than strategy. They'd use the bombing as leverage regardless of who was actually responsible. Sergei Kozlov was a wild card—capable of explosive violence or unexpected alliances depending on which served his interests. I pulled up their recent operations, flagged potential pressure points.
The Sokolovs. Old guard. Traditional. They'd stay neutral unless the war threatened their territory. Financial pressure could move them. Or threats to their legitimate businesses. I mapped their holdings.
The Morozovs.
I paused. Stared at Viktor Morozov's name on monitor three.
Enemy. Primary threat. Most likely responsible for the bombing or at least complicit in it.
We’d been warring with them for months, ever since the trouble with Eva and the USB, and since Viktor Chenkov, theirbrutal enforcer, had died. I needed to know everything. Every weakness. Every leverage point. Every possible angle to exploit.
I pulled up their organization chart. Viktor Morozov, Pakhan. His lieutenants, soldiers, business fronts. Import/export operations through the ports. Money laundering through art galleries and auction houses. Sophisticated operation, more refined than the Kozlovs' brutality.
Associates. Family members. Potential targets.
One file caught my attention.
Anya Morozova. Age 26. Only daughter.
I clicked. Her file expanded across monitor four.
