Page 5 of Bratva Bride
Four hours later, I'd walked out with everything we needed. Contract signed. Shipping routes secured. I'd felt like a fucking genius.
Drove to her apartment in Brighton Beach to tell her about it. She always wanted to hear about my work. Didn't care that half of it was illegal. Didn't care about the violence underlying every deal. She just loved watching my mind work, loved seeing me use the analytical skills she'd helped nurture.
I'd used my key to let myself in. Called out for her. No answer.
Found her in the kitchen.
On the floor between the table and the stove. Her housedress—the blue one with white flowers, the one she wore every Sunday—was twisted around her legs. One arm stretched toward the phone on the table. Three feet away. Might as well have been three miles.
The teapot was shattered beside her. The porcelain teapot with the blue flowers. One of the three things she'd brought from Saint Petersburg. Broken into pieces on the linoleum floor.
The coroner said she'd been dead approximately two hours. Massive stroke. Instant loss of consciousness. But that was wrong. Had to be wrong. Because her arm was stretched towardthe phone. Because she'd tried to reach it. Because she'd known something was wrong and tried to call for help.
Tried to call me.
My phone timer went off. Four minutes. The tea was ready.
My hands were shaking violently now. I reached for the teapot. Tried to pour. The lid rattled against the pot. My fingers wouldn't grip properly. The tremor had spread from my hands to my arms to my whole body.
I set the pot down before I dropped it.
Not this one. Couldn't break this one. It was all I had left of her. The last piece of Saint Petersburg. The last thing her hands had touched that my hands could still touch.
I gripped the counter edge. White-knuckled. Tried the four-count breathing. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.
It wasn't working.
I reached for the tea caddy to put it away. Fumbled it. Tea leaves scattered across the counter, black and twisted like dead insects. The scent filled the small space. Her kitchen. Her voice. Her body on the floor.
My legs gave out.
Dmitry caught me before I hit the floor. Strong hands under my arms, lowering me into the chair he'd dragged over from the war room. My legs wouldn't support weight. My whole body shook with tremors I couldn't suppress.
"Easy, brother." His voice rumbled through his chest. I was leaning against him. When had that happened?
"I'm—" I started. Stopped. Couldn't finish. I wasn't fine. Wasn't anything resembling fine.
"You're having a panic attack," Alexei said calmly. He'd moved to the counter, was surveying the scattered tea leaves with clinical assessment. "Focus on breathing. We'll handle the rest."
"The tea—" My voice cracked. "I need to—"
"Let me." Alexei gently took the tea caddy from where I'd dropped it. His movements were precise, careful. He swept the scattered leaves into his palm, disposed of them, wiped the counter clean with a dish towel.
Then he retrieved the measuring spoon.
I watched through the haze of panic as my oldest brother measured tea with the same precision Babushka Nina had taught him. One teaspoon per cup. Plus one for the pot. His hands moved with practiced grace despite never making tea, never touching this set except when she'd taught us all the ritual.
We'd all learned. All three of us, sitting at her kitchen table on different Sunday afternoons.
She'd known. Known what we'd need. Known what we were.
Dmitry's hand was on my shoulder. Heavy. Warm. Keeping me tethered to something real.
Alexei poured hot water into the teapot from the side of the kettle, not directly over the leaves. Gentle. The water turned amber immediately. He set his phone timer for four minutes and turned to look at me.
"Breathe, Vanya."
I tried. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.
