Page 53 of Bratva Bride
"Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Volkov."
They discussed logistics for another ten minutes—permits, worker schedules, material delivery windows. Ivan took notes in neat columns on a legal pad, his left hand moving in those geometric doodles I'd started recognizing as his thinking process. Circles connecting to squares connecting to triangles, an endless pattern that seemed to help his brain process multiple data streams simultaneously.
When he rolled his shoulders—tell number one that stress was building—I made a mental note. Maybe tonight I'd offer that back rub. Maybe he'd let me take care of him for once.
The call ended, and Ivan had exactly thirty seconds to close his eyes and breathe before his phone rang. Dmitry's name on the screen made Ivan's jaw tighten—tell number two, family business—but he answered on the second ring.
"Bratya," he said, the Russian word for brother carrying weight that the English translation couldn't match. On the laptop screen, Dmitry appeared, and even through video, his presence filled the frame. Broader than Ivan, rougher around the edges, with the kind of barely contained violence that made people cross streets to avoid him.
"We have a situation," Dmitry said without preamble. "Smetya's apartment building had an electrical fire last night. Lost everything."
Smetya. I knew that name from the intelligence I'd gathered for my father. Low-level soldier, worked security for the legitimate construction sites. Had three kids under ten and a wife.
"Injuries?" Ivan asked, already pulling up another screen on his laptop.
"Minor smoke inhalation for the youngest. They're all at Mount Sinai, getting checked. But Ivan, they've got nothing. The building's condemned. Red Cross put them in some shit motel in Queens, but—"
"Unacceptable." Ivan was already typing. "The furnished apartment we keep in Brooklyn Heights, is it occupied?"
"No, but that's for—"
"It's for family emergencies. This qualifies." More typing. I could see bank screens reflected in his glasses. "I'm transferring fifty thousand to the emergency fund. Get them clothes, toys for the kids, whatever they need to replace immediately. Has Maggie from benefits filed the insurance claims?"
"This morning, but you know how that goes. Could be months—"
"Then we cover it until insurance pays out. Full salary continuation plus hardship bonus. Make sure the kids' school knows they might be absent for a few days." He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer. "And have Clara coordinate with the wives. Mrs. Smetya shouldn't have to handle this alone while also dealing with treatment."
My chest tightened. This was what my father never understood—that loyalty wasn't built through fear but through moments like this. When you proved that "family" meant something beyond blood and violence.
"The men will appreciate this," Dmitry said carefully.
"The men deserve to know we take care of our own." Ivan's tone brooked no argument. "Make sure everyone knows the Smetya family is under full protection until they're back on their feet. Anyone who has a problem with resources going to a soldier's family can discuss it with me personally."
The threat was subtle but clear. Ivan might not be the enforcer his brother was, but challenging his decisions about family welfare would be... inadvisable.
They discussed logistics for another few minutes—medical coverage, school transfers for the kids, security for the new apartment. Through it all, Ivan maintained that same calm control, solving problems with mathematical precision but never losing sight of the human element. When he mentioned asking Clara to organize a toy drive among the bratva families, even Dmitry's harsh face softened slightly.
The call ended, and the transformation was instant. The Ice King melted like spring thaw, shoulders dropping, jaw unclenching, that invisible armor dissolving as his eyes sought mine across the room.
"How's my little one?" he asked, and his voice was warm honey again, gentle Daddy instead of bratva strategist. The whiplash of it—the way he could hold both versions of himself without losingeither—made me understand why his brothers trusted him with their empire.
"Good," I said, closing my laptop on the unread paper. "Just watching my Daddy take care of people."
Something flickered in his gray eyes—surprise maybe, or pleasure at being seen. At being understood.
"Come here, kotyonok," he said, pushing back from the table, and I went without hesitation, fitting myself into his lap like I belonged there. Which maybe I did.
"Your shoulders are tight," I observed, my hand finding the knots stress had tied between his shoulder blades. "Can I help?"
His exhale was shaky. "You already are."
ThegeometricflowerI'dbeen shading suddenly looked less like art and more like evidence of my emotional state—petals drawn too tight, colors pressed too hard into paper. But the repetitive motion soothed something in my brain, so I kept going, purple crayon wearing down to a nub as I filled in the mandala's center. The afternoon light had shifted golden through the penthouse windows, and I'd been coloring for—time had gone slippery, could have been twenty minutes or two hours.
Ivan's approach registered in my peripheral vision, but it was his energy that made me look up. He moved with intent rather than his usual controlled grace, and when he sat beside me on the sofa—close, closer than usual—my stomach performed the kind of drop reserved for missed steps and bad news.
"Kotyonok, I need to tell you something."
There it was. The preface to disappointment. To changes in plans. To revelations that safety was temporary and conditional and about to be revoked. My fingers tightened on the purple crayon until the paper wrapper crackled.
