Page 28 of Bratva Bride
“Try his phone again,” I say, eyes never leaving the screen.
Maksim dials, holding the phone to his ear, but he shakes his head when there’s no response.
I weigh the risk for half a second, then nod at Maksim. “Let’s go in.” He doesn’t hesitate. I draw my knife and slide it between the door and the frame, popping the lock with a short twist. Maksim stands ready beside me, watching the shadows, always alert for trouble.
The kitchen smells faintly sour, like someone left milk out and forgot. Dishes are stacked neatly beside the sink. A pair of shoes sits by the mat. Everything looks untouched, not abandoned—just paused, as if Reznikov meant to come right back. I move through the small, dark house, careful not to disturb anything I don’t need to. The air is stale, the fridge humming louder than necessary.
We move room to room. The bedroom is tidy, the bed made, though the sheets are wrinkled like someone sat there in the dark for a long time. On the dresser, there’s a cracked photo frame showing a much younger Reznikov with a little girl, maybe his daughter, smiling wide in a summer dress.
I move into the cramped hallway, tracing my fingertips along the faded wallpaper as I think through everything we know about Reznikov—his habits, his routes, the way people like him keep secrets close but not always well hidden. On impulse, I duck into the small bathroom at the end of the hall. The medicine cabinet is filled with nothing but half-used toothpaste and expired painkillers, but something odd catches my eye on the inside of the door—a strip of masking tape, pressed flat against the mirror’s metal edge, barely visible unless you’re looking straight at it.
I peel it back and feel something thin and hard taped underneath—a plastic key card, the kind you use at a hotel or private club. There are no markings, just a single strip of numbers pressed into the plastic: 40811.
I hold it up for Maksim to see. “This doesn’t belong here.”
He steps closer, his brow furrowing as he inspects it. “Looks like a room key.”
“Or a secure facility,” I say. I run my thumb over the numbers, thinking.
Maksim checks the tape, then the mirror. “You think Reznikov left this for someone to find, or he just ran out of time?”
I examine it again under the lamp. The number isn’t familiar, but something about it tugs at my memory—hotel keys from the port district, maybe, or one of the exclusive clubs used for off-books meetings.
“Doesn’t matter now.” I pocket the card, weighing its importance. “It’s the only thing in this whole place not meant to be found.”
Sunlight spills across the kitchen floor, warming the marble and catching the edge of my coffee mug. I sit at the table, watching the key card catch the light as I twirl it absently between my fingers. The numbers stamped into its surface have already been burned into my mind, but I keep turning it over, searching for meaning in the blank plastic, searching for something I’ve missed.
Nadya’s voice breaks through the quiet. “Are you even listening to me?”
I blink, snapping out of my thoughts. “What?”
She narrows her eyes, folding her arms as she leans on the other side of the counter. “Did you hear anything I just said?”
I set the key down, rubbing a hand over my jaw. “No. Sorry. I was…distracted.”
Her gaze drops to the key. “What’s that?” She reaches out, brushing her thumb over the numbers, turning it in the morning light.
I meet her eyes, deciding in an instant to tell her the truth—most of it, anyway. “We had a situation at the warehouse last night. Someone hit it, took out two of our guards, torched the control room. Left almost nothing, except a mess and a message. We tried to track down the manager, Reznikov, but he’s missing. House was empty. We broke in—didn’t find much, except for this.” I nudge the key card toward her. “It was taped to his bathroom mirror, hidden under the cabinet.”
She lifts the card, reading the numbers, her brow furrowing in concentration. “Any idea what it opens?”
“Could be a hotel, could be a private club, could be nothing,” I say. “But someone wanted it hidden, which means it matters.”
She’s silent for a moment, weighing it in her palm, her eyes distant in that way I know means she’s assembling a plan. “I might know someone who can help,” she says finally, setting the card down in front of me.
I study her. “Who?”
She shrugs, casual as always when she doesn’t want to give too much away. “Just a friend. He’s good with numbers. And patterns. Give me a day or two.”
There’s a flicker of something behind her eyes, but I let it go. We all have people we trust in our own ways. I nod, pushing the key back to her. “Go ahead. Just let me know if you find something I need to see.”
She gives me a small, conspiratorial smile. “You’ll be the first to know.”
My phone rings, Viktor’s name glowing across the screen. I answer, keeping my voice measured, not quite sure what to expect.
“I have news,” he says, and I can almost hear the smirk.
I lean back in my chair, studying the coffee gone cold in my mug. “What kind of news?”
