Page 4 of Bratva Bride
Alexei appeared on my left. I waved him off. "I can walk."
"Didn't say you couldn't," he replied, but stayed close anyway.
I moved toward the small kitchenette in the corner of the war room. The space was barely six feet square—mini fridge, electric kettle, two-burner hot plate I'd never used. I'd installed it two years ago when I realized I was spending more time up here than in my actual apartment.
I began the ritual, the one thing I could always depend on to calm me.
I reached for the electric kettle with shaking hands. Filled it at the sink with exactly 500ml of filtered water. The measurement was important. Too much water and the tea would be weak. Toolittle and it would be bitter. Babushka Nina had been specific about proportions.
I set the kettle on its base. Pressed the button. The heating element glowed red underneath.
While the water heated, I retrieved a wooden box from the top shelf of the small cabinet. Had to stretch for it. My shoulders screamed. I brought the box down carefully, cradling it with both hands.
Hand-carved birch wood, pale and smooth from years of handling. A wolf was etched on the lid—the Volkov crest, done in simple lines by someone with more skill than artistry. My grandfather had carved it in 1987, before I was born. Before he brought his family to America and built an empire from nothing.
Inside the box, nestled in faded red velvet: a porcelain tea set.
Small white pot with delicate blue flowers painted around the rim. Four cups barely larger than shot glasses, the same blue flower pattern. The porcelain was thin enough to be translucent when held to light. Fragile. Precious.
Babushka Nina had carried it in her suitcase from Saint Petersburg in 1992. Wrapped in her winter coat to keep it safe during the journey. It was one of three things she'd brought from the old country—the tea set, her wedding ring, and a photo of my grandfather who'd died three years before they emigrated.
I set the pot and three cups on the counter. My hands were steadier now. The ritual demanded precision. My body knew that.
The kettle clicked off. Boiling. I let it sit for exactly ninety seconds to reach the proper temperature. 95 degrees Celsius. Too hot and the tea would be scorched. Too cool and it wouldn't steep properly.
While I waited, I opened the tea caddy. Georgian black tea blend—strong, bitter, complex. The scent hit me immediately. Earth and tannins and something almost smoky. The smell ofher kitchen in Brighton Beach. The smell of Sunday mornings and late night conversations and every important moment of my childhood that mattered.
I measured one teaspoon per cup plus one for the pot. The rule she'd taught me. The rule her mother had taught her in a different kitchen, in a different country, in a different life.
"Patterns are in everything—water, leaves, time. You just have to pay attention."
Her voice in my head, clear as if she stood beside me. Twelve years old, sitting at her kitchen table while she showed me the precise method. Her gnarled hands moving with practiced grace despite the arthritis that bent her fingers.
"The kettle must be at 95 degrees, Vanya. Not boiling—that burns the leaves. And you warm the pot first, always. Pour a little water, swirl it, pour it out. This way the temperature stays consistent."
I poured hot water into the teapot. Swirled it three times clockwise. Poured it into the sink. Steam rose. The porcelain warmed in my hands.
I added the tea leaves to the warmed pot. One, two, three, four teaspoons. Plus one for the pot. The leaves were black and twisted, releasing their fragrance as the porcelain heated them.
"Now you pour from the side of the kettle, not directly over the leaves. Gentle. You're not drowning them—you're waking them up."
I poured. The water turned amber almost instantly. The scent intensified. Bitter and beautiful.
"Steep for exactly four minutes. Set your timer, Vanya. Precision matters."
I set my phone timer for four minutes.
Another memory surfaced while I waited. Later. Years later. Me at twenty-three, sitting in the Krasnov negotiation. Hoursixteen. The shipping routes through Newark hanging in the balance. My phone buzzing on the conference table.
Babushka Nina. Calling.
I'd looked at the screen. Silenced it. The Krasnov representative was talking about dock access fees, and I needed to hear every word to calculate our counter-offer.
The phone buzzed again. Babushka Nina. Again.
I silenced it. Stayed focused. The deal required absolute concentration. Couldn't afford distractions.
Third call. I didn't even look at the screen this time. Just hit decline and went back to the spreadsheet showing port access percentages.
