Page 14 of Bratva Bride
Arman checks his watch, then tilts his head toward the hall. “I’ll walk you out.”
At the door Rifat, hands me a fresh travel mug. “Same roast,” he says. “Lighter on the rocket fuel.”
“Thank you.” I smile. “I’ll need it to face LA traffic.”
Outside, the air is cool, faintly citrus from the trees along the drive. Arman rests a hand on my arm. “Get some rest tonight,” he murmurs. “Tomorrow will come soon enough.”
I slide into the driver’s seat, the gummy bears rustling in my pocket like a promise, and head for home—carrying with me the first glimmer of hope I’ve felt since Nikolai disappeared.
6
KONSTANTIN
Mila’s criestear through the quiet apartment, pulling me from uneasy sleep before my mind can catch up to my body. I’m already moving down the hall, Nadya just ahead, her robe trailing across the floor as we both hurry toward the light spilling from Mila’s doorway. She’s curled under her blanket, shoulders trembling, eyes squeezed shut against the dream that followed her into waking. Nadya is beside her in an instant, gathering her into her arms, whispering her name over and over as if the sound alone could drive away the fear.
I stand by the door, uncertain for a moment—caught between wanting to protect them both and knowing there’s nothing I can say to erase what Mila just saw. Her voice is shaky, full of tears as she clings to Nadya, trying to find the words to explain her nightmare. “I saw Nikolai, Mama. He was calling for me. He was lost and he needed me, but I couldn’t get to him.”
Nadya pulls her close, her hand smoothing Mila’s hair, her voice low and steady as she whispers promises of safety and love. I watch the way they fit together, mother and daughter, grief and hope tangled up in the warmth of a single embrace. There’s apain in me that doesn’t fade, a heaviness that has nothing to do with lost sleep. I wish I could protect Mila from dreams, from memories, from the ache of missing her brother, but all I can do is watch and wish things were different.
Nadya looks up, her expression full of exhaustion and quiet resolve. “I’ll stay with her,” she says, her voice soft but certain. She turns her attention back to Mila, drawing her close until her tears quiet and her breathing slows.
I don’t leave the room, instead settling at the foot of Mila’s mattress, careful not to disturb them. The quiet settles around us, and I can hear Mila’s breaths lengthen, Nadya’s words growing softer as she hums a lullaby. I watch the gentle rise and fall of the blanket, listen to the rhythm of their comfort, and let the night surround me.
There’s a helplessness in this kind of love—a wish to do more, to offer answers and safety I don’t have. I stay because it’s all I can give, my presence and the silent promise that I won’t leave, not while there’s anything left to hold on to. Even when Nadya’s eyes finally drift closed and Mila sleeps tucked in the curve of her mother’s arm, I remain at the foot of the bed, watching over them and waiting for the first hint of morning.
Morning light creeps across the city, drawing the edge off the long night. I find Nadya in the kitchen, her hair pulled back, shoulders tense as she stirs a pot on the stove. The air smells of coffee, but neither of us reaches for a cup yet. We stand in the quiet for a moment, letting the hush between us settle before I speak.
I clear my throat. “I was thinking,” I say, careful to keep my voice even, “maybe we should consider sending Mila back to school. Just for a few days. See how she handles it.”
Nadya stills, her hand halfway to the fridge. She doesn’t say anything for a moment, just presses her lips together and studies the counter like it might give her an answer. “I don’t know,” she finally says, her voice soft but carrying all the worry she tries not to show. “It hasn’t been that long. She barely sleeps through the night. Last time she saw her classmates, she still thought her brother would be home for her birthday.”
I nod, understanding her hesitation, feeling it in my own bones. “I know. I just…I thought maybe a routine would help. Being around other kids, having something normal again, even if it’s just for a morning or two. She’s been stuck in here with us for two weeks, Nadya. I’m worried she’ll forget what it feels like to just be a child.”
Nadya pours herself a cup of coffee, and then sits down, cradling the mug in both hands. Her shoulders are tight, but she doesn’t shut me out. “What if she’s not ready? What if she goes and it just makes things worse?”
“We won’t push her,” I say, searching her face. “If it’s too much, we pull her back. But if we don’t try, we’ll never know. And I think—” My voice catches for a moment, thinking of last night, of Mila’s tears and the helpless ache I couldn’t fix. “Hiding her away isn’t helping either. If it doesn’t work, we try something else.”
She sighs, finally meeting my eyes, a mix of worry and hope in her voice. “Let’s talk to her. Gently. See what she wants.”
I reach for her hand, fingers curling around hers as naturally as breathing. Her skin is warm from the mug, her grip steady enough, but there’s a space between us that feels wider every day, no matter how close we stand in this kitchen. She lets me hold on, but her gaze drifts over my shoulder, caught somewhere in her own worries and regrets.
For a moment I wish I could pull her all the way back—close enough that we could share the same kind of certainty we used to, before everything was torn open and scattered. But she’s right here and still somehow just out of reach, her mind circling Mila, Nikolai, all the things we can’t fix with plans or promises.
I squeeze her hand gently, wanting to say something that would bridge the gap, but the words dry up before I can find them. Instead, I hold on for another breath, giving her the only comfort I have left, knowing it isn’t enough. She doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t draw any closer either. The morning light is soft on her hair, her features half in shadow, and the weight of all we’ve lost hangs between us, silent and unchanged.
“We’ll figure it out,” I say, quietly, not sure if I’m talking to her or just filling the space so I don’t have to let go.
She nods, but I can feel it—the ache of loving someone through a wall you can’t see, and not knowing how to break it down.
I follow Nadya down the hall, the soft tread of her slippers barely breaking the silence that still lingers after the night. The door to Mila’s room is half-closed, morning light pooling at her feet where she sits cross-legged on the bed, clutching her favorite stuffed rabbit.
Nadya knocks gently. “Mila, sweetheart? Can we talk to you for a minute?”
Mila looks up, her eyes still puffy from sleep but clearer than last night. She nods, hugging the rabbit closer as we both sit on the edge of the mattress, careful not to crowd her.
“We wanted to ask you something,” I begin, searching her face for any sign that we’re pushing too hard. “How would you feel about going back to school, maybe just for a few days to see if you like it?”
She considers this in silence, her lips pressed together, gaze flicking between the two of us. For a moment, I wonder if she’s about to say no, or break down all over again.
