Page 50 of Bratva Bride
He sighs, the sound heavy, almost tired. “Nadya. You can’t trust Arman. Not now. Not ever. You know what he’s capable of.”
I glare at him, the sting of old betrayal prickling in my chest. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
He holds my gaze a moment longer, then looks away. “I’m still your father, Nadya. I want you safe.”
I want to laugh, or cry, or both, but I don’t let him see either. Instead, I turn to the window, watching the city swallow Konstantin’s shape as he disappears into the morning. The AirTag’s icon appears on my phone screen—one small assurance in a world of shifting shadows.
I meet his gaze, stubborn, but there’s an ache behind my ribs I can’t shake. “You think I trust anyone at this point?”
He doesn’t reply. For a moment, it’s just the hum of the city outside, the faint echo of Mila’s laughter in the next room. For all his warnings, for all the secrets hanging between us, he’s here. For now.
My fingers tighten around my phone, thumb hovering over the tracking app as I watch Konstantin’s dot move farther from home. The apartment feels cold, Pyotr’s presence heavy as winter air, but I refuse to let him see how shaken I am.
He stands and steps closer, searching my face for something I won’t give him. “You think I’m just trying to control you?” he asks quietly.
I force a small, brittle smile. “No. I think you’re trying to protect me in your own way. But you don’t know this world anymore, Dad. Not really. You left.”
He doesn’t flinch. “I left because I had to. Doesn’t mean I forgot how these men work. Arman was dangerous before you were born. He’s more dangerous now. You let him in, he’ll use you. That’s what he does.”
His certainty grates at me, partly because it sounds too much like Konstantin, absolute, unyielding. “You don’t know what I owe him,” I say softly, voice barely above a whisper.
He tilts his head. “I know what you owe Mila. And Nikolai. And yourself. Be careful who you trust, Nadya. Just because you think you’re in control doesn’t mean you are.”
He starts to say something else, but I turn away and gather the coffee cups from the table. I don’t want his advice, not now. Not when every secret feels like another crack in the floor beneath my feet.
I reach the warehouse just after noon. The old freight yard looms at the edge of the docks, red brick streaked with decades of saltand soot. Inside, the air smells of motor oil and the faint tang of seaweed carried in on every gust through the cracked skylights. Rifat posted two men at the bay doors; they nod me through without a word.
The main floor is gutted, only a ring of portable work lights throwing long beams across the concrete. Dima’s cables snake to a generator humming in the corner.
An unmarked roll-up door whines open as I pull in, headlights sweeping across scuffed walls and oil-stained floors. Inside, a single string of work lamps throws pale light over crates, tarped machinery, and a folding table that serves as command center.
Katya rises from a metal chair near the back. Her white coat is smudged with dust, stethoscope draped around her neck. On the other side of the lamp, Ludmila slumps against a steel support, wrists zip-tied to the chair arms, ankles bound to the legs. A mild sedative keeps her docile; her head lolls, hair sticking to her tear-streaked cheeks.
Rifat leans against a pallet stack, rifle cradled, Dima perched on a crate beside him with an open laptop, security feeds flickering on the screen. They give me a nod as I approach.
Ludmila stirs, blinking at the sound of my boots on concrete. “Please,” she whispers, voice raspy. “Help me.”
I walk right up to her. “Why the fuck should I help you? You destroyed my family.”
I look Ludmila straight in the eyes, letting the words cut through the haze of drugs and fear.
“I know you hated your husband. I know what it’s like, how it must have twisted you up, watching your own son grow,knowing he wasn’t really Dmitry’s. Living with that fear, day after day, wondering when the truth would finally catch up and destroy everything you’d built.”
She tries to turn away, but I keep her gaze locked.
“That’s why you hated Konstantin, isn’t it? Because he was the proof. Because no matter how hard he tried, no matter how loyal he was, he could never be enough for Dmitry. He carried Dmitry’s blood, and still he was always on the outside, always the outcast—always what you could be, if you ever lost that fragile grace your husband gave you.”
Ludmila’s face crumples, the fight going out of her in slow waves. Tears streak down her cheeks, but I don’t feel pity.
“The irony is, for all your secrets, for all your hate—Konstantin is the one who still has that blood. The one you wanted out of your sight. And Alexei…”
I pause, letting her sit with the truth. “Alexei was never Dmitry’s son. But you built your world around that lie, and now you’re going to watch it burn unless you tell me where Nikolai is.”
She’s shaking now, breath coming fast. I lean in, voice like steel. “You want to walk out of here, Ludmila, you tell me everything. Or you can sit here and remember what it feels like to be powerless, just like he always was in your house.”
“That was brutal,” Rifat mutters behind me as I straighten, stepping back from Ludmila’s chair. My pulse is pounding in my ears. The air in the warehouse feels thick, too heavy to breathe.
Ludmila is crying now, lips trembling. “I don’t know where Nikolai is, I swear,” she stammers, her voice breaking. “He was at the Varna Quay Suites with me until last week. They…theymoved him. I don’t know where. I was just supposed to watch him, to keep him calm. But someone else came for him, I didn’t see who, I just know he’s not there anymore.”
