Page 26 of Bound By the Bratva

I wrap my arms around his small frame and pull him into a hug as I say, “No, sweetheart. We’re not.”

When I let him go, he scurries off to find another toy, and I reach into the pocket of my slacks. The burner phone still has battery. I power it on, glancing at the signal bar. There’s only one bar, but it’s enough. I open a message app and type the number. It’s not saved, but I know it by heart.Batyanever let me forget it. He made me memorize it when I was fourteen, just in case his sins brought hell down on me.

And now I'm glad I did.

Anya: 11:27 AM: I need two clean passports. One for a woman in her late twenties and one for a five-year-old boy. We must be able to leave from Moscow with no questions asked.

The phone chimes when it sends and Nikolai glances up from his toys, his eyes flicking toward me with mild curiosity. I meet his gaze and manage a smile to keep him from asking questions. He watches me for another beat, then turns back to his game without a barrage of questions. When he's occupied, I send one more message.

Anya: 11:28 AM: I need them fast. No digital records, no names, and absolutely no connection to the Vetrov organization. I’ll pay in cash—whatever it takes to keep us off the radar.

There’s no reply, but I don’t expect one immediately, and maybe not at all.Batya'scontacts aren't all on favorable terms and this person—whose name I don't even know—may be dead, for all I know. I tuck the phone back into my pocket, and my hands shake slightly as I sit straighter and return my attention to the only thing that matters.

Nikolai has now lined up his cars with a horse figurine, as if they’re racing down an invisible track. I lie down beside him,resting on one elbow. My other hand reaches forward and taps the toy.

“Who’s winning?” I ask, trying to keep my tone playful and not full of fear.

He giggles, not looking up from the floor. “The car! The horse can't run that fast, Mama."

I laugh too, although the sound comes out thin and tired. My eyes stay on him while he plays, oblivious. I tell myself this is still just a normal afternoon, that we aren’t slipping into something dangerous. But I know better. I know this is the first quiet step toward leaving. And once we take it, there’s no turning around.

Lunch is servedin one of the estate’s side parlors, a room I haven’t seen before today. We're led there by Mara, one of Rolan's maids who is nice enough to introduce herself in very broken English. White walls meet carved ceilings overhead. Glass chandeliers hang above us, refracting sunlight into prisms on the tablecloth. The long oak table is set for six, but only two of us are seated. Rolan is absent, and his absence makes the room feel colder.

The table is laid with bowls of solyanka, crusty black bread, and plates of roasted chicken still steaming from the kitchen. A pitcher ofkompotsits near the center, its ruby liquid catching the fractured sunlight that filters through the windows. Nikolai digs into his soup like he hasn’t eaten in days, his little fingers fumbling with the spoon.

"Mama, this has sausage in it," he says, delighted, lifting a chunk from the broth and holding it up for me to see.

"Eat it before it gets cold," I tell him with a grin as I tear off a piece of bread and dip it without tasting it.

He continues between bites, barely pausing to chew. "The man said one of the horses liked me when we went to the stable.It bowed its head when I got close. Do you think that means I could feed it,Mamochka?" He’s beaming, his cheeks flushed with energy.

I place my spoon down carefully. "We’ll talk about it later," I say. I force a smile, tuck a napkin under his chin, and wipe the corner of his mouth. Rolan walking my son around this estate is going to cause problems. I'm going to have to address it.

He picks up a slice of cucumber from the edge of his plate and waves it. "He said it was a good horse, the one with the white legs. Like it understands people."

"Horses are smart," I tell him, keeping my voice light, but I am simmering with anger. "But they can be dangerous if you’re not careful."

"He said I was brave." Nikolai speaks around a mouthful of bread. "He said I looked like him."

My stomach tightens. I sip from my glass to hide my reaction, but the sweet kompot tastes sour on my tongue now. Tears try to well up, but I blink them back. Nikolai likes Rolan way too much, too soon.

"Don’t talk with your mouth full," I tell him.

He grins and swallows, then adds, "He talks funny. But he’s nice."

I nod slowly, reaching across to brush a crumb from his sleeve. "Finish your soup."

He obeys without complaint, returning to his meal with the focus only children possess. I eat what I must, but it sours in my stomach as I sit and think about how desperately I want out of here. I should never have come back to Moscow to saveBatya. He is a grown man. He made his bed in hell and he should have to sleep in it. I can't be his savior.

When lunch is over, I help him upstairs to the bathroom where Mara and another younger woman have drawn a bath forNikolai. Bubbles pile up and almost spill out. Toys float on the surface, and Nikolai claps his hands enthusiastically at the sight.

The steam from the bathroom curls out into the hallway, and I test the water, adjust the tap, and help him climb in. He splashes and sings, toy sharks and plastic cups floating around him, and the tiled walls echo with his happiness.

“Mama, look, this one’s diving to the bottom!” he cries, holding up a soaked blue cup.

“Careful,” I say, catching the cup before it slips off the rim and dumps water onto the floor. “We don’t want another flood.”

He laughs again, louder this time, slapping the surface of the water until it hits my shirt. I pretend to scowl at him, and he squeals in delight when I tickle him. The younger woman covers her mouth in a snicker and Mara ducks out.

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