Page 17 of Bratva Bride
Anya crosses her legs, setting her shopping bag at her feet. “So, how’s Mila doing?” she asks, her tone light but her eyes sharp with real concern. “She looks tired.”
“She’s had a rough morning,” Nadya says, voice cautious. She gives Anya a polite smile, still unsure what to make of her.
Anya nods in understanding, glancing at me as if to ask if everything’s truly fine. I hold her gaze a beat, offering the smallest shake of my head, and she catches on without missing a beat.
“Well,” she says, leaning back, “if you ever need a distraction, there’s a gelato place on the second floor that makes everything from scratch. I swear by the pistachio.”
Mila stirs, eyes fluttering open at the mention of gelato. She looks from Nadya to me, then at Anya, curiosity brightening her face just a bit.
“We’ll keep that in mind,” I say, my voice relaxed, doing my best to act as if this is all as casual as it sounds.
Anya glances at her phone, then back at us. “I should go before I spend more than I meant to. The mall’s a dangerous place for impulse shoppers.” She stands, smoothing her dress, and looks at Nadya with genuine warmth. “It was nice to see you all. Take care of Mila, okay?”
Nadya gives a nod, not quite smiling, but her posture softens. “Thank you. Maybe we’ll see you around.”
Anya winks at me as she leaves, a silent promise not to say anything more. As she melts into the flow of shoppers, Nadya sits back and lets out a slow breath, glancing at me with that searching look that says she still has questions but will let them rest—for now.
I keep my arm around her, feeling the unease slip back into the background as Mila leans into my side, content for the moment.
7
NADYA
Arman is stayingat a new safe house, an apartment that’s nothing like the home I shared with Mila. The windows are narrow, set high enough to keep out street noise and prying eyes. There’s almost no furniture—a gray sofa, a folding table littered with takeout boxes and half-drunk mugs of coffee, a row of mismatched chairs dragged in from somewhere else. Boxes marked “supplies” are stacked neatly against one wall, next to a duffel bag full of burner phones and a pile of nondescript jackets. The air smells faintly of industrial cleaner and strong black tea.
It’s nothing like home. That’s exactly the point. Arman wanted somewhere we could meet without being seen, close enough to Mila’s school that I could get there in minutes if anything happened. The only decoration is a faded map of Los Angeles taped above the kitchen counter, red pins marking hospitals, courthouses, and a scattering of addresses I’d rather forget.
Arman sits at the head of the table, running his thumb along his beard as he listens. Rifat leans in the doorway, sleeves rolled, ever-watchful. Katya is perched on the arm of the sofa, tapping something into her phone, and Dima is half-buried behind alaptop, the screen throwing code-shaped shadows across his face.
I shift in my chair, glancing once at the door to be sure it’s locked before I speak. “Something happened at the ice cream shop yesterday,” I say, my voice quiet but unwavering. “It wasn’t random. Two men came after us—after Mila. Konstantin and I took care of them but…” I trail off.
Rifat’s jaw tightens. Katya sets her phone aside, her attention now fixed on me. Dima stops typing, the keys falling silent.
Arman leans forward, elbows on the table. “Details, Nadya. What stood out?”
I think back to the chaos, to Konstantin pinning the man to the ground. “There was a tattoo on one of their arms. I didn’t get a good look, but Konstantin described it. He said it was a serpent wrapped around a dagger.”
Arman rubs at his beard, eyes narrowed in thought. “A serpent and dagger…you’re sure?”
“As sure as anyone can be in a fight,” I reply, meeting his gaze. “But it stood out. Not the usual Bratva symbols. If you know something?—”
He cuts me off with a shake of his head. “I have my suspicions, but that’s not enough to go on. Not yet.”
Rifat clears his throat, looking uneasy. “If they’re bold enough to come after you and your family in broad daylight, we’re out of time.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking. We don’t have time to wait,” I say, resolve cutting through my exhaustion. “We need to actnow—not just to get Nikolai back, but to take down Alexei for good. If we stall, we’re just giving them more opportunities.”
Rifat gives me a look that’s equal parts concern and admiration. “Does your husband know you’re making these moves?”
I let out a breath, feeling the old ache between loyalty and necessity. “He knows what happened, but not what comes next. This isn’t his plan. It’s ours.”
Before I can say more, Arman cuts in, his tone final. “We move on our timeline. Whatever that tattoo means, whoever they belong to, we’ll find out soon enough.”
“So what is the plan, exactly?” I ask, letting my eyes travel over the faces gathered around the battered table. “Katya, did you get any info on Nikolai from your hospital contacts?”
Katya shakes her head, frustration clear in her voice. “Not yet. I pushed as far as I could without drawing attention, but there’s nothing unusual in the last week—no kids matching Nikolai’s age or description brought in under false names. I’ll keep pressing.”
Dima glances up from his laptop, his fingers never quite still. “I’ve been combing through foster placement records and temporary shelters, looking for any sign of a transfer or a child brought in without proper paperwork. Either they’re hiding him very well, or he’s not in the system.”
