Page 12 of Bratva Bride
Inside, the air is cool and crisp, faintly scented with the Turkish coffee I grew up with. The hallway opens up into a wide living room filled with low leather chairs, battered trunks doubling as tables, and the kind of careful mess that says men live here but don’t intend to stay long. I catch the murmur of voices from the kitchen—two men and a woman, strangers, their accents clipped.
One of the men, tall and wiry, stands as I enter. “You must be Nadya,” he says, nodding with the respect reserved forsomeone important, or someone dangerous. “I’m Rifat. Arman’s expecting you. Coffee?”
I nod, offering a small smile, and he slips past, his movements quiet, purposeful. The other two watch me, not unkind but definitely curious, sizing me up. I recognize the look—it’s the same one I give new faces in dangerous places.
Arman appears from the kitchen, his shirtsleeves rolled, a gold chain glinting at his collar. He hugs me tight, then steps back to study my face, worry and pride tangled in his gaze. “Come, sit,” he says, steering me toward a sunlit corner of the room.
We settle into the battered armchairs, and Rifat sets a thick cup of coffee on the table beside me, the aroma grounding me in memory. For a moment, I let myself relax, breathing in the comfort of old rituals. The others fade into the background, leaving us in the hush of afternoon light and old leather chairs. My uncle watches me, taking in every detail like he’s checking for wounds.
After a moment, he asks, “You heard anything from your father?”
I shake my head, the memory flaring bright and painful. “Not since the night everything went to hell.” My voice sounds strange even to me, thick with things I haven’t said out loud. “He showed up at our place—the night of the rehearsal dinner. He tried to warn me.”
I look up, the words coming out bitter and raw. “A warning doesn’t erase what he did. He kept saying he was sorry, that he couldn’t fix it. But it doesn’t change the fact that he’s the one who leaked our location to Alexei in the first place. He’s the reason the massacre happened.”
Arman’s expression tightens. He doesn’t try to excuse Pyotr, just lets the truth settle in the space between us. “He always did find ways to hurt people while convincing himself it was for the greater good,” he says quietly.
My grip on the cup tightens. “I keep thinking I should hate him for it. And maybe I do. Maybe I’ll never forgive him. But part of me still wants to know where he is. Part of me wants him to come back and explain—” I shake my head. “But even if he did, it wouldn’t change anything.”
Arman leans forward, his voice soft but certain, the accent of my mother’s childhood still in the way he says my name. “You don’t owe him forgiveness, Nadya. Not for what happened. You only owe yourself and your family the truth—and a way forward. If Pyotr ever resurfaces, you decide what comes next.”
I look up, the room swimming for a moment in sunlight and regret. “He was my father,” I whisper. “But he made his choice. I have to live with the consequences.”
Arman nods, his loyalty unspoken but absolute. “And you won’t do it alone. Not while I’m here.” He sits back in his chair, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on a spot somewhere just past my shoulder.
For a moment, the only sound is the distant thump of music from a neighbor’s backyard and the clink of Rifat washing dishes in the kitchen.
“I know you’re angry,” Arman says finally, his voice low. “And you have every right to be. Pyotr’s sins are his own. What happened that night—that’s not on you. But you can’t let the past make you blind to what’s ahead.” He holds my gaze, and I hear the edge of command in his tone, the same voice he used when Iwas a girl and he was teaching me to break a grip or read a room. “Right now, you need to focus on your children. On getting Nikolai back.”
I nod, swallowing past the burn in my throat. “I just keep replaying it, over and over. Wondering if I missed something—if there’s a trail I haven’t seen.”
I study the photos and scraps of information tacked up on Arman’s board, none of them giving me what I need. Alexei’s face is there, along with half a dozen low-level men I recognize from old family gatherings and police reports, but nothing links directly to Nikolai. It’s all rumor and guesswork.
Arman stands with his arms folded, brow furrowed, staring at a note scrawled in blocky handwriting. “I’ve been asking around,” he says. “Alexei isn’t working alone, but whoever’s helping him isn’t one of the usual suspects. No one on the street knows anything. Every time I push, it goes cold.”
I pace the small den, frustration bleeding into every step. “There has to be another angle. Something we’re missing. If they moved Nikolai after the attack, they needed help—maybe not muscle, maybe something quieter.”
Arman’s gaze flicks to a folder near the edge of the table. “I have a contact at city hall—she’s picked up whispers about someone making inquiries with child services. Someone asking about emergency placements, and about keeping certain names out of public records. It’s bureaucratic, careful. Someone covering their tracks with paperwork, not guns.”
The idea settles over me, heavy and nauseating. “They could have hidden him in plain sight,” I say. “Hospital records, fostercare, maybe even a private shelter—somewhere we’d never think to look first.”
Arman nods, flipping his phone over in his hand. “I’ve got people who can check. It’s slow work, and it means calling in favors. But if Alexei passed Nikolai off to someone outside the family, the paper trail is our best bet.”
I cross my arms, staring at the photo of Nikolai pinned to the center of the board. “If he’s out there, I’ll find him. I don’t care how many doors I have to kick down.”
Arman squeezes my shoulder—maternal family affection in his touch, his loyalty unwavering. “We’ll check every file, talk to every nurse, every social worker. Start with your contacts at the hospitals, I’ll handle city hall.”
I nod.
“You need to meet the people I trust,” he says. “If we’re going to dig through official systems and start rattling doors, you can’t do it alone. And I won’t always be the one walking beside you.”
He leads me down a side corridor into a wide room that was once a library. The heavy drapes are drawn, muting the afternoon glare; what little light filters in glints off radios, first-aid packs, and gear bags stacked where novels used to sit. A long table dominates the center, spread with street maps and two open laptops streaming data feeds.
The first person who looks up is the same man who greeted me at the door with coffee—Rifat. He’s tall, rangy, cheeks shadowed where he hasn’t bothered to shave for a couple days. A faint scar crosses his brow, and I notice an earpiece coiled behind his collar. He gives a small nod and shifts aside to let us pass, one eye still on the driveway through a slit in the curtains.
Arman rests a hand on my shoulder. “You already met Rifat. He handles transport, safe houses, gear—anything that moves or needs hiding, he’s two steps ahead. If we change plans at three a.m., he’s got a van running at three-oh-five.”
Rifat’s smile is quick, gone in a breath. “Routes are mapped and fueled,” he says, voice low and even. “Just say when.”
