Page 52 of Bratva Bride
I fish my phone out of my jacket and bring up the app. I can see Konstantin’s location already drifting north. I almost laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “He’s not stopping,” I murmur.
Arman glances at me, eyes tired. “He’s like you that way.”
I tuck the phone away, unsure if that’s a compliment or a warning. “What are we going to do with Ludmila?” I ask. “Do you think bringing her here is going to hurt Nikolai?”
He takes his time answering, gaze turned toward the water beyond the chain-link fence. “If Alexei finds out she’s in our hands, things could get ugly. But I don’t see another way. She’s the only leverage we have left.”
I shiver, but not from the cold. “Do you think she’ll talk?”
“She’ll break eventually,” he says, voice flat. “Everyone does.”
I stare down at my boots, swallowing the guilt that rises every time I hear her scream from inside. “And if she doesn’t?”
Arman shrugs, flicks ash to the ground. “Then we keep her alive as long as she’s useful. After that, it’s your call.”
I nod, but doubt sits heavy in my stomach. “I hope you’re right.”
He studies me, then flicks his cigarette away. “Don’t hope, Nadya. Stay ready. It’s the only thing that’s ever saved us.”
I wrap my arms tighter around myself, watching the traffic move in the distance, trying to remember who I was before all of this began.
Arman watches me for a moment, squinting into the sun. “Are you really not curious where your husband disappears off to?” he asks. “I thought that was the entire point of you asking for the tracking device.”
I shake my head, hugging myself tighter. “I feel icky tracking him,” I admit, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “I know why I did it, but still. He’s my husband.”
Arman raises his brows but doesn’t push. He just waits. Curiosity gnaws at me anyway. I open the app and watch the blinking dot for a moment. It’s not in the city anymore—Konstantin’s location shows up on a stretch of empty highway, somewhere out in the desert, miles from anywhere.
“That’s odd,” I murmur, more to myself than him.
I slide the phone back into my pocket and turn toward the warehouse. Arman flicks away his cigarette and doesn’t follow.
Inside, the shadows are thick, and Ludmila’s sobs have gone quiet. Dima glances up from his laptop as I approach. “You need something?” he asks.
I nod. “I need you to help me figure out where Konstantin is. Something’s not right.”
Dima nods, and quickly helps me find the information I need. Konstantin’s AirTag is headed toward Viktor Sokolov’s casino.
I stare at the screen, jaw clenched. Konstantin warned me, more than once, to stay away from Viktor Sokolov and anything tied to that club.
The thought burns through me, twisting somewhere low in my gut. For all his demands for honesty, Konstantin is the first to run off and keep his secrets. My mind flashes, unbidden, to that day I saw him at the restaurant—Konstantin laughing with that girl, Anya, sunlight catching in her hair as she leaned in close.
I swallow down the bitterness. Maybe I shouldn’t care, but I do.
It’s easier to focus on the present. I push the tracker out of my mind, but the image lingers, a half-truth, a secret meeting, a version of my husband I’m starting to recognize less and less.
I don’t say a word to Dima or Rifat. I just slip out of the warehouse as soon as no one’s looking. The morning sun is already climbing, painting everything in flat gold and long shadows. I drive straight across the city, my mind spinning over every possibility—Konstantin’s secrets, Viktor’s club, the girl at the restaurant.
I stop at a little boutique off the main road, walk out with a dress in the kind of deep red that makes a statement, and a fresh tube of lipstick. In the car, I change quickly, brushing my hair out in the rearview, hands shaking more than I’d like to admit as I dab concealer over the faint bruise on my cheek. I stare at my own reflection for a moment, eyes hard. If he can play this game, so can I.
As I pull onto the main road, I grab my phone and call Pyotr. He answers on the third ring.
“Dad, I want you to keep an eye on Mila for a few hours,” I say, voice low, glancing at the mirror to look at the car that’s been behind me for too long.
He sighs. “I don’t think your husband’s bodyguard likes me very much.”
“Maksim won’t bite. Please, just do it for me.”
There’s a pause, then he relents. “Fine. I’ll watch her.”
