Page 32 of Bratva Bride
I draw back, letting the palm fronds hide me. Viktor taps the rim of his glass with one finger, nodding while Konstantin answers, his tone quiet but earnest, the set of his shoulders unmistakably tense in that way he tries to mask when he’s negotiating.
The woman lifts her glass, tilting it toward Konstantin, her fingernails painted the same pale shade as her dress. He inclines his head, but his eyes flick to the entrance of the dining room, scanning the room—and for a breath I think he has seen me. Instead, he nods to the waiter, who sets down a dark bottle that glints green in the light.
The piano melody drifts louder as the lobby doors glide open, passengers arriving for late brunch. I take the opportunity to move, walking back the same way I came. My pulse drums in my ears, a mix of surprise and anger.
The image of Anya’s hand resting lightly on Konstantin’s sleeve plays in my mind on a loop. He didn’t pull away. He didn’t even flinch, as if her touch belonged there.
I turn the corner too quickly and collide with a soft shoulder. A gentle gasp escapes as Kira steadies her clutch, catching me before I stumble.
“Hey,” she says, concern rising in her voice. “Where have you been?”
“Sorry,” I murmur, brushing an invisible wrinkle from my skirt. “I needed a minute.”
Kira shifts to the side, peeking past me toward the lounge. Her eyes widen. “Isn’t that your husband?” Her voice drops to a whisper as she spots Konstantin still seated with Viktor and Anya near the windows.
I follow her gaze and see him gesture toward a sheet of paper while Anya watches, chin propped on her hand, lips curved in an appreciative smile. Something inside me twists.
Kira’s head turns back, her expression changing when she registers the look on my face—tight, unreadable even to me.
“I won’t mention a thing,” she says quickly, placing a hand on my arm. “Your secret is safe.”
“Excuse me?” I say.
Kira lowers her hand, choosing her words with care. “In our world it’s not unusual for husbands to…wander. As long as they’re discreet, most wives let it go.”
I feel the blood rise in my cheeks, anger and shame mixing like bitter wine. “This is not that sort of secret,” I say, breathing slowly to keep the words level.
Kira’s eyes soften, genuinely apologetic. “I only meant—if something is happening, there’s no judgment from me.”
For a brief moment I envy her calm assumption, her belief that betrayal can be folded neatly under a tablecloth and ignored. I straighten my shoulders. “There is no affair,” I say. “Konstantin has obligations that cross paths with many people. That is all.”
Kira studies my face, searching for cracks, then nods. “Of course.”
The hush between us grows as waiters glide past carrying polished trays. My phone buzzes again in my clutch—another message from Rifat confirming Mila is safe at school. The mundane update anchors me. I inhale the scent of salt drifting through the revolving door, steadying my thoughts.
Kira offers a tentative smile. “Shall we go back? They’re probably ready for dessert.”
“In a moment,” I reply, adjusting the strap of my bag. She squeezes my arm once more, a silent apology, and slips around the corner toward the ladies’ room, heels clicking softly.
I linger in the corridor, half-hidden by a decorative screen of bamboo. Through the lattice I watch Konstantin lean back in his chair, listening to Viktor, nodding at something Anya says. She pours more wine, her movements elegant and unhurried. He accepts the glass, his mouth forming a brief smile—genuine or polite, I can’t tell.
The hurt flares again, sharp and cold, but I hold still, breathing through it. I remind myself of the numbers on the key card, of the private tower by the port, of the lines that have begun to intersect in ways neither of us predicted.
There are bigger battles ahead. The wives can keep their gossip.
I have a war to win.
12
KONSTANTIN
Rose’s Bistro sitsat the edge of the pier, all white beams, wide windows, and quiet piano music that never seems to reach anyone’s ears. Sunlight spills through the glass and scatters across our table as if it has nowhere better to land. Viktor occupies the chair opposite mine, polished as ever in a tailored jacket, a glass of Bordeaux held lightly between two fingers. Anya sits to his left, linen dress brushing her knees, blond bob neat and perfect, the same poise I noticed at the mall. A waiter leaves fresh olives and steps away.
Viktor begins without pleasantries.
“Your warehouse was not the only one hit,” he says. “Another crew on Terminal Island lost its control room four nights earlier. Same light explosives, same surgical damage, nothing significant taken.”
I keep my hands flat on the table. “And you tie this to Grigori Vasin.”
