Page 41 of Bratva Bride
I kneel by the nightstand, run my fingers under the drawer lip, and pop a hidden latch. A slim leather notebook rests inside. I flip to the marked page:
Vsyo gotovo dlya sleduyushchego etapa.
Everything ready for the next stage.
My stomach dips.
“Two heat signatures just exited the eighth-floor elevator,” Dima’s voice cuts in, urgent. “Heading your way.”
No time.
The bedroom door swings inward before Rifat can reach it. A woman steps in, silver hair pinned high, designer coat draped over slim shoulders. I know that regal profile, the set of her jaw: Ludmila Buryakova—Alexei’s mother.
For a split second she freezes, and I see it all in her face—fear, guilt, the recognition that whatever power she once held doesn’t mean a thing now.
“You,” I spit, the word like broken glass. I lunge before I even think. My hand tangles in her hair, jerking her head back as I drag her out into the main room. She screams, shrill and desperate.
“What the hell is going on?” Dima hisses in my ear.
“Nadya, no!” Rifat snaps, but I barely hear him.
I slam Ludmila to her knees on the plush carpet, my grip white-knuckled in her hair. Her hands claw at mine, nails raking my skin.
“Where is my son?” I shout, shaking her hard.
She sobs, mascara streaking down her face. “Please—please don’t kill me, please?—”
Rifat is at my side, hands on my arm, trying to pull me back. “Nadya, we need to take her. We need to move.”
I look at him, fury burning through me, then shove Ludmila toward the door. She stumbles, half crawling, still crying and begging.
“Get her up,” I order, voice shaking. “We’re not leaving without answers.”
Rifat hauls her to her feet, his jaw clenched. I keep my hand twisted in her hair as we push her into the corridor, her pleas echoing in the empty suite.
“Please,” she sobs. “I’ll tell you everything. Just—just don’t hurt me.”
Rifat presses a cloth over her mouth to keep her quiet while we move. My pulse hammers, but my voice is ice. “You’ll live, Ludmila. Long enough to tell me everything.”
We drag Ludmila through the suite, her heels scraping on the marble as she whimpers and clings to the doorframes. Rifat keeps one arm wrapped around her middle, pinning her hands while I press the barrel of my pistol into her back. Every time she stumbles, my patience thins.
“This is insane,” Dima mutters in my ear. I can hear the panicked clicks of his keyboard as he tries to cycle security cameras away from our route. “This wasn’t part of the plan?—”
“It is now,” I snap, forcing Ludmila forward.
Ludmila’s breathing is ragged, each gasp cut off by Rifat’s palm. He’s dragging her half off her feet, her shoes scraping, designer scarf trailing like a flag of surrender.
We make it to the elevator foyer. Rifat hits the service call, glancing at his watch. “Stairwell’s riskier, but we don’t have time.”
I check the corridor. “No cameras until the elevator. Dima?”
“You’re clear, but only for another five minutes,” he answers. “Get her out, now.”
The elevator dings. The doors slide open—and two men are waiting inside. Both big, both armed. One of them steps forward, the gold tooth in his smile flashing under the lights.
Kirov.
He steps out of the elevator, all swagger and bad intentions, gold tooth glinting as he grins. Even in the chaos, I recognize him instantly—the man who once tried to buy me at the auction, who bid high and dirty while I stood on that cursed stage.
