Page 22 of Bratva Bride
“Hm.”
He leans in slightly. “You want advice?”
“No.”
That shuts him up. He steps back without a word, adjusting the party hat like it matters, his expression unreadable again.
Lev would’ve pushed. He’d have rolled his eyes, said something crude or too honest, something that would’ve pissed me off in the moment and made sense later. He wouldn’t have backed down just because I barked. He’d have stood there, arms folded,waiting until I gave in and told him what was going on, because Lev always knew when I was cracking under the surface.
Maksim is not Lev.
He’s dependable, capable, quiet. He follows the plan. Does his job. Doesn’t cross lines. And maybe that’s what I needed after Lev was gone—someone who doesn’t push.
But right now? I feel the absence like a blade.
I watch Maksim walk off, the ridiculous hat still bobbing as he goes. He’s not offended. He’s used to my moods. He’ll be back the next time I need something, no questions asked.
And that’s the problem, isn’t it?
I stand by the drink table, feeling the sun beating down from its late afternoon angle, glancing across the picnic tables and the checked blankets that dot the open grass. The breeze rustles the bright streamers tied to the trees, and the smell of frosting and grilling hot dogs drifts on the air. It’s all so normal—so perfectly staged for Mila’s sake, for the children shrieking around the swings and the cluster of adults trading pleasantries in the shade.
My eyes keep drifting back to Nadya.
She’s at the edge of the party, near the tables where the wives gather, most of them perched on folding chairs in their careful summer dresses. Bratva wives, mistresses, daughters of men who matter, or think they do. They’re dressed like they’re waiting to be photographed, perfectly made up in curated casuals, fingers wrapped around wineglasses like weapons.
Nadya’s right in the middle of them.
Her back is straight, her expression pleasant. She nods, laughs where appropriate, even tilts her head the way Mila does when she’s pretending to listen. But I know her. And I can see the way she shifts her weight just a little too often, how her fingers keep brushing down the side of her dress like she’s adjusting fabric that’s already in place. She’s uncomfortable.
The sight of it makes something twist in my chest.
She can navigate the Bratva’s most vicious rooms like she was born for it. But put her in a circle of gossiping women in pastel heels and she’s visibly off-balance.
She’s trying. I don’t know what for, and I don’t like not knowing—but she’s doing it.
And somehow that bothers me more than if she were holding a gun.
I turn and wave over the caterers, pointing to the corner table shaded by a blue canopy. “Set up the cake over there,” I tell them, making sure my voice carries just enough to sound in charge. The woman in the chef’s coat nods, already signaling her staff.
I’m just finishing off a too-sweet cup of punch when I notice a group of dads break away from the picnic tables. They’re not from our world—button-down shirts, comfortable sneakers, baseball caps worn backward, the kind of men who take their kids to T-ball practice and have strong opinions about lawn fertilizer. I brace myself as they head straight toward me, carrying that unmistakable energy of men who have no idea what they’re walking into.
“Hey, you’re Mila’s dad, right?” the tallest one says, sticking out his hand. “I’m Brian—my kid’s in her class.”
I shake his hand, keeping my face neutral. “Konstantin.”
“Konstantin, right! That’s…Russian?” another dad chimes in, squinting at me.
“It is,” I reply, deadpan.
The third dad, who has a baby strapped to his chest and a “#1 DAD” mug, grins. “So, what do you do, Konstantin?”
There’s a long pause. I could lie, but I’m tired and curious to see what they make of the truth. “I’m in…asset recovery.”
They exchange glances. Brian laughs, slapping my arm. “Oh, like repo? You tow cars?”
I arch a brow. “Something like that. Sometimes the assets move, sometimes they don’t want to be found. Sometimes it gets…messy.”
Jeff laughs. “You make it sound like you’re in the mafia or something!”
