Page 43 of Bratva Bride
I claw at his eyes, rake nails across his split cheek, but he only snarls and tightens the choke. Black spots flicker at the edges of my sight. I grind my knee up, missing once, then slam it between his thighs. He grunts but doesn’t loosen enough.
Air. I need air.
A loud crack reverberates. Kirov jolts sideways, the pressure vanishing. He topples off me, clutching his shoulder, cursing in Russian. I roll onto my side, coughing hard, lungs burning.
I push up on shaky elbows just in time to see my father—Pyotr—standing over Kirov. He’s grayer than I remember, beard trimmed short, eyes hard. In his hands is an aluminum fire-axe handle ripped from the stairwell wall, the heavy head still attached. He lifts it again, expression grim. “Get away from my daughter,” he growls, voice like gravel.
Kirov tries to rise, but Pyotr swings, the blow smashing into his ribs with a thud that echoes off concrete. Kirov tumbles down the steps, groaning.
I struggle to my feet, hand at my bruised throat. “Dad?” The word rasps, half disbelief, half relief.
Pyotr doesn’t answer immediately. He steps between me and Kirov’s crumpled form, hefting the weapon. Only then does he glance over his shoulder at me, eyes softening for a heartbeat. “Move, Nadya. We haven’t got long.”
Somewhere above, alarms begin to shriek. Security finally woke up.
I stumble forward, forcing my legs to obey. Pyotr offers a forearm, and I grip it, steadying myself. Together we limp through the exit, the night air hitting us like a wave of cold salt. Behind us, Kirov’s snarls fade under the wail of sirens, but I know this isn’t finished.
Not yet.
14
KONSTANTIN
I nearly drift offin the chair, head tilted back, a file still open in my lap. The lamp casts a low amber glow over the scattered pages, and somewhere beyond the glass windows, the harbor cranes blink red in the fog.
A quiet rustle breaks the silence.
I sit up straighter, blinking the haze from my eyes. Mila stands in the doorway, her hair a sleep-tangled halo, dragging her stuffed rabbit by the ear. She rubs one eye with a tiny fist.
“Where’s Mommy?” she whispers.
I’m on my feet before I even think about it, the file sliding to the floor unnoticed.
I glance at the clock.
12:07 a.m.
Shit.
Nadya hasn’t come home.
I curse myself silently, throat tightening as I walk to Mila. “Hey, bunny,” I say gently, crouching to her level. “What are you doing out of bed?”
“I had a bad dream,” she mumbles, then looks up at me with wide, questioning eyes. “Where’s Mommy? I went to her room but she wasn’t there.”
I wrap an arm around her and lift her easily into my arms. “She’s…out, sweetheart. Just stepped out for a little while.”
“To the store?” she asks sleepily, tucking her face into my shoulder.
“Something like that.”
But my mind’s already racing. Nadya didn’t say she had a plan tonight.
I carry Mila to her room and tuck her back into bed. She clings to my shirt for a second longer than usual. “You’ll stay here?” she murmurs.
I nod, brushing her hair back from her forehead. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She falls asleep within minutes, her chest rising and falling in even rhythm, her hand still curled around my fingers.
