Page 60 of Bratva Bride
“Come with the others,” I say.
Viktor pulls away smoothly, merging into traffic, his eyes never leaving the road. “Maksim seems hurt.”
“He’ll live,” I say, pulling on my seat belt.
“Don’t you trust him?” Viktor asks.
I don’t reply right away.
“Okay, I get it,” Viktor says, smirking. “It’s good. We’ve much to discuss.”
“Like what?” I say, turning to him.
“Our plan is working,” he says quietly, a note of satisfaction in his voice. “The word on the street is exactly what we wanted. Alexei is paranoid, Grigori is jumpy, and everyone’s watching each other for the next move. Now Ivana surfaces, right where we can find her.”
I nod, gripping the door handle tight. “Let’s hope she leads us to what we need.”
Night crowds the windshield, docks and warehouses sliding past in streaks of sodium orange. The port district never really sleeps, but at this hour it trades cargo cranes for liquor and neon. Viktor threads the Mercedes through a maze of container stacks until a knot of parked cars and thumping bass tells us we’ve arrived.
A concrete club squats against the pier, lights pulsing blue through cracks in the boarded-over windows. A line of smokers huddles outside, shoulders hunched against the salt wind.
Inside, the club is packed—blue and violet lights slicing through the darkness, bodies packed tight on the dance floor, everything moving in a swirl of sound and shadows. It takes me less than a minute to spot her. Ivana, hair pulled back, eyes darting, leaning over the bar in a tight black dress, one hand shaking as she nurses a drink.
For a split second she doesn’t see me. Then our eyes lock—hers widen, startled, pupils blown wide with fear. She jerks upright, drops the glass, and bolts for the back of the club, elbowing through dancers, shoving past a pair of bouncers.
I’m after her in an instant, shouldering through the crowd. People shout, stumbling aside as I push forward, every muscle focused on the fleeing shape ahead. I see flashes of her hair, the glitter of her bracelet, the desperate look she shoots over her shoulder before she ducks down a hallway markedPrivate.
Someone grabs my arm, but I twist free, barely slowing. My pulse is a drum in my ears, adrenaline burning through the haze of grief and anger that’s been choking me for days. Ivana disappears around a corner and I follow, hearing her heels clatter down the narrow corridor.
You’re not getting away this time.
“Ivana, stop!” My voice echoes off metal walls. She glances back once, panic bright in her eyes, heels skidding on concrete.
She bolts left. I’m faster. I catch the edge of her jacket just before we hit an emergency door that spills us onto an open catwalk over the water. Cold air knifes through my shirt; below, black waves slap the pilings.
She twists, desperate, swinging a small knife that appears from nowhere. I grab her wrist, slam it against the railing. The blade clatters into the dark.
“Where’s my son?” My breath ghosts in the night, each word a growl.
Her pulse hammers beneath my grip. “Konstantin, I swear—I was forced?—”
“Where is he?”
Footsteps pound behind me—Maksim, Viktor, maybe club security—but right now all I see is Ivana’s tear-bright eyes and the chance to end this nightmare.
“Talk,” I hiss, tightening my hold. “Or I throw you in and let the tide decide.”
I pin Ivana against the railing, the wind whipping her hair across her face. Below us the water churns, black and merciless. Her breath comes in quick, shallow bursts, eyes wide with terror.
“First you get my men killed,” I say, voice low and steady. “Good men who trusted the wrong person. You think I’m going to let you slip away because you plead?”
“I didn’t know Alexei would do that,” she cries, shaking. “I thought he loved me. He abandoned me, Konstantin. Hurting me won’t change anything.”
“Don’t tell me what will help,” I snap, tightening my grip. Her knees buckle and she collapses, clutching the hem of my jacket. The sight only fuels the anger thrumming in my chest.
Viktor steps onto the catwalk, staying just behind me. “If she has information, we should hear it before you toss her in,” he says, calm as ever. “Dead witnesses aren’t useful.”
Ivana looks up at him, then at me, tears streaking her cheeks.
