Page 31 of Bratva Bride
“Only when I forget my espresso,” I say, earning a laugh from Dasha.
Tatiana’s smile returns, thin as rice paper. “I suppose it is difficult to keep a strict regimen with children. Mila is how old now?”
“Six,” I say.
“And the boy?” she asks, spoon poised, innocent tone carving a sudden hollow in my chest.
Kira inhales, sensing the shift. Lena glances at her lap. Only Dasha remains oblivious.
I hold Tatiana’s gaze. “They’re twins.”
Tatiana sets her mimosa down with a soft click, tilts her head as if studying a rare insect, and lets a small tutting sound slip between her teeth. “It must be so hard for Mila,” she says, voice honeyed but heavy with feigned sympathy, “to lose her twin like that.”
The words bloom across the table, thick and cloying, almost sweet enough to hide the rot underneath. My stomach goes stiff, as if the linen napkin in my lap has turned to stone. Around us the easy chatter pauses, wineglasses hovering midair, forks suspended above porcelain. Kira’s eyes widen, Dasha bites her lower lip, and Lena stares down at her plate as if she can will herself invisible.
I swallow once, the tea cooling in my mouth, and force my breath to steady. Nikolai is not gone. He is missing, stolen, hidden. He is breathing somewhere in this city, and I will not let Tatiana shrink him to a polite past tense. The urge to spit something sharp and final rises in my throat, but I cage it behind my teeth. A single outburst would give her exactly what she wants.
Instead, I lift my cup, steady as a metronome, and take the lightest possible sip. I set it down, fingertips precise against the saucer. When I meet Tatiana’s gaze, I let every shard of grief sharpen behind my eyes while my voice stays calm, smooth, almost warm.
“Mila chooses to believe her brother will be home soon,” I say, enunciating each word with deliberate care. “Children understand hope better than adults. It keeps them strong.”
Tatiana blinks once, surprised that I didn’t break. Her smile slips, a hairline fracture. Kira reaches to squeeze my hand beneath the table, the most subtle of gestures, invisible from Tatiana’s angle. Dasha exhales as though she had been holding her breath.
I continue, still looking at Tatiana, letting the steadiness of my tone carry the weight of the promise underneath. “And until he is home, Mila knows her family will never stop looking.”
I shift, straighten my shoulders, and turn to Kira. “You mentioned the crab Benedict is excellent?”
Kira nods quickly, her voice bright but controlled. “Yes, of course. The chef makes a citrus hollandaise that’s lighter than the traditional style. You would love it.”
The conversation stirs back into motion. Utensils clink, polite comments about weather and travel resume, though a faint tremor runs beneath each sentence. Tatiana lifts her glass again, but she doesn’t look at me. The point has been made.
I dab the corner of my mouth with the napkin, my pulse finally easing. Inside, my anger coils tighter, channeled into resolve. Nikolai’s name will not be spoken like a eulogy.
Kira’s bright chatter steers the gathering away from Tatiana’s misstep, and soon the plates are half-empty, the women comparing spa memberships and discreet jewelers once more. I let myself drift at the edges of the talk, offering small comments, never more than a sentence or two. The key is to blend—present but quiet, interested but not demanding. When the waiter refills our glasses, I ask about the blend of the citrus hollandaise, just enough culinary curiosity to keep Tatiana’s attention off my real focus.
It's Dasha who unknowingly opens a door. She leans across the table, lowering her voice to a gleeful whisper. “Have any of you seen the new suites near the port? The ones with the private elevators? Apparently they’re impossible to book unless you know someone on the inside.” Her eyes gleam at the novelty of exclusivity.
Kira perks up. “Oh, my husband mentioned something about them. Some offshore investors bought the whole tower to host theirpoker nights.” She air-quotes the phrase, and the others laugh knowingly.
My pulse kicks up. Offshore investors. Portside tower. I tuck that detail away, sipping my water to hide the spark of interest. “Which tower is this?” I ask, aiming for idle curiosity.
“The Varna Quay Suites,” Dasha supplies. “My husband said their key cards have numbers, not names. Very mysterious. His friend’s was all numbers starting with something like four-zero-eight?—”
“Four-zero-eight-one-one,” Lena interrupts, eyes bright with secondhand gossip. “That was the sequence. They went up for a private wine tasting. No staff on the guest floors, only a concierge coded to the elevator.”
My stomach tightens. The sequence matches the numbers on the card Konstantin found. I keep my expression neutral and trace the rim of my glass. “Seems impractical,” I say lightly. “All that secrecy for a little wine?”
Tatiana smiles, but I see the curiosity in her gaze now directed at me instead of the others. I offer a small shrug, as if the conversation is nothing but fluff. Inside my mind, the map redraws itself. Varna Quay. Private elevators. Key cards marked only by numbers. Investors who prefer to stay invisible. It can’t be coincidence.
Kira pats her lips with her napkin. “I’ve heard the money behind it came from the east. Bulgaria, maybe? Something about Varna shipping interests buying half the pier.”
I excuse myself from the table on the pretext of finding the restroom, leaving Tatiana and the others comparing Pilates studios again. Rose’s layout is a maze of glass corridors and nautical art; the restrooms sit in a side hall that arcs away from the main dining room before curving back toward the lobby. After washing my hands, I step into the corridor and pause to fix my hair in the mirror. The chatter from the dining room is muffled behind the heavy door, replaced by faint piano music from the lounge near the front windows.
A low burst of laughter drifts from the lobby, deeper and more masculine than anything from brunch.
I round the corner and stop in the shadow of a large potted palm.
Konstantin is five paces away, half turned toward the bay windows, the water glittering behind him. He’s not alone. Viktor, the man from the meeting, occupies the opposite side of a small round table, posture relaxed, smile sharp in profile. Beside Viktor sits the same young woman who approached Konstantin at the mall—the one with the neat blond bob and the easy confidence. Anya, she called herself. She speaks to the waiter in flawless French, then laughs at something Viktor says, her hand brushing Konstantin’s sleeve as though they share a private joke.
