Page 57 of Bratva Bride
I’m at the stove, stirring a pot of soup that smells a little like home and a little like desperation. Mila is singing quietly at the kitchen table, legs swinging, oblivious to the storm churning just beneath my skin.
My phone buzzes. For a moment, I just stare at it, thumb hesitating over the screen. I know it’s Konstantin. I feel it before I even see his name. My stomach twists as I swipe to answer.
“Where are you?” His voice is tight, low, frayed at the edges.
I keep my back to the window, voice flat. “None of your concern.”
He curses softly, “Nadya, don’t do this to me. Mila?—”
“She’s fine.” I glance toward the living room, where colored pencils and paper are scattered like quiet little promises. “Don’t bother trying to track my number,” I add. “You won’t find us.”
“Nadya—”
I can’t hear the plea. I end the call, drop the phone to the tile, and bring my heel down hard. The screen cracks, splinters, goes dark.
A rustle at the doorway startles me. Rifat stands there, grocery bags in both arms, eyes wide. “Hey,” he says, stepping inside slowly. “Hope I’m not disturbing anything.”
I force a breath, schooling my face back to calm. “No. Dinner’s almost ready.”
He scans the shattered phone, then my face. He doesn’t ask. Instead, he sets the bags on the counter, starts unpacking vegetables. “Arman picked this apartment well,” he says, voice even. “Quiet street, decent locks.” A beat passes before he adds, “But I still don’t like Pyotr hanging around.”
“Noted,” I murmur, tasting sauce that suddenly seems too salty.
Rifat arranges tomatoes in a bowl, glancing toward the hallway where my father keeps watch. “Just say the word, I’ll find somewhere else for him.”
I shake my head. “One problem at a time.” I stir the pot harder than necessary, the sauce popping, hissing like it shares my anger.
“Arman’s not thrilled about your father being here either,” Rifat tries again. “Says it complicates things.”
I shrug, not looking at him. “Everything’s complicated.”
Rifat doesn’t argue, and for a few minutes, the only sounds are the hiss of the stove and Mila’s hums.
Dinner is quiet, the kind of quiet where every clink of a spoon sounds too loud. Rifat sits across from my father, shoulders stiff, eyes fixed on his soup as if it might offer instructions. Pyotr watches him without bothering to hide it, a faint frown cutting a line between his brows. He’s polite enough not to say anything, but the air feels dense around him.
Mila kicks her heels against the chair legs, humming under her breath. She glances between the adults, sensing the tension she can’t name.
“So, uh, thanks for the food,” Rifat says quietly, mostly to his bowl.
Pyotr nods, noncommittal. “Eat while it’s warm.”
No one says anything else for a while. The scrape of silverware on plates fills the room.
Rifat tries again. “It’s a nice place. Cozy.”
Pyotr just grunts.
Mila yawns and drops her fork, mumbling that she’s full. Rifat looks like he wants to say something reassuring but thinks better of it.
The silence hangs on, awkward and heavy, all of us just pretending this is how things are supposed to be.
After getting Mila into her pajamas, I sit on the edge of her bed, smoothing her blanket over her small frame. The night-light throws soft shapes across the walls—stars and moons that drift slowly, as if they’re trying to lull her into dreams. She clutches her stuffed rabbit to her chest, its ears worn from constant handling.
“Mommy?” Her voice is quiet, rough with sleep that hasn’t settled yet.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
She turns her face toward me, eyes glossy in the dim glow. “I miss Papa.” A shaky breath. “And I miss Nikolai. And Irina. Why does everyone keep leaving me?”
