Page 73 of Bratva Bride
Dasha’s expression softens immediately, regret flickering across her face. “Sorry,” she says gently, touching my arm. “That was thoughtless.”
I swallow, forcing a smile, trying to brush away their concern and my own unease. But even as I try to keep my chin up and shoulders straight, my gaze keeps drifting back across the room to Konstantin, who’s smiling at something she’s saying.
Lena is the first to break the hush. “Whoever she is, she picked the safest color in the room.” She sips her champagne with a thoughtful hum. “Safe is boring.”
Tatiana lifts one perfectly shaped brow. “Safe can also be strategic. Black lets her float along the edges while still getting noticed.” She turns to me, lowering her voice. “Tonight crimson is the color people will remember.”
“But you have to admit, she’s got the mysterious routine down,” Kira says.
Tatiana follows my gaze, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “She does seem awfully chummy with your husband, Nadya,” she murmurs, lips curving just a little, but her tone is more curious than catty. My stomach dips, bracing for a pointed jab, but to my surprise the others quickly pick up the thread and direct it outward.
Lena lowers her glass, eyebrows raised. “I don’t recognize her. She’s not in our circle, is she?”
Kira shakes her head. “No idea. I’ve seen her at a few big events, always keeping to the edges but never missing anything. She doesn’t really talk to anyone.”
“She has the look of someone who collects secrets for a living,” Dasha adds, her tone playful.
Tatiana leans in a little, voice dropping for effect. “Or maybe she’s just another hanger-on, hoping to catch the king’s eye for a headline.”
Lena’s eyes linger on Anya a beat longer. “I heard a bartender say she’s Viktor’s sister.”
“Really?” Tatiana says. “That’s interesting, and it also tells me everything I need to know.”
Tatiana sips her champagne and lowers her voice just enough to draw the others closer. “Viktor’s family is the kind people only talk about in whispers. You know his father, Mikhail Sokolov, was notorious even in his prime—ran half the city’s underworld from the shadows. But Viktor was always the black sheep. Bastard son, everyone knew it. His mother wasn’t Volkov’s wife, but some mystery woman he kept in a separate apartment. No one even knows her real name. Viktor grew up on the outside looking in.”
Kira nods, adding, “The rumor was, Viktor’s father didn’t exactly die of old age. Found dead in his study, gun on the desk, but…nobody ever really believed it was suicide.”
Lena’s eyes go wide, drinking in every word. “You think Viktor?—?”
Tatiana shrugs, letting the implication linger in the air. “It was never proved. The police couldn’t pin anything on anyone, and after Mikhail Sokolov died, Viktor stepped up—just like he’d been waiting for it his whole life. And now his sister…hmm no wonder he keeps her in the shadows. If she weren’t here, I wouldn’t even know hehada sister.”
A subtle chime rings through hidden ceiling speakers, and the orchestra falls quiet. The host strides onto the small stage beneath the nearest chandelier, tuxedo impeccable, microphone glinting between elegant fingers.
“Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished guests,” he calls, voice smooth as velvet. “On behalf of our generous sponsors, allow me to welcome you to the Volkov Foundation’s gala in support of pediatric oncology. Your presence—and your generosity—will help build hope where it is needed most.”
A polite round of applause swells, champagne glasses raised. Servers weave between clusters of silk and satin, replenishing flutes and offering miniature canapés arranged like edible jewels. The lights dim just a breath, casting the ballroom in a warm amber glow while the orchestra eases into a lilting waltz.
Tatiana’s husband arrives with an easy smile, slipping her hand into his and guiding her out with practiced grace. Kira’s follows a moment later, pressing a kiss to her temple before whisking her away in the sweep of the music. Dasha spots her fiancé by the bar and excuses herself with a quick wink. Even Lena, flushed and laughing, disappears in the arms of a broad-shouldered lieutenant I vaguely recognize from Konstantin’s inner circle.
One by one they leave, their soft farewells hanging like perfume in the air until I’m the only one of our little coterie still standing by the linen-draped table. Konstantin remains several paces away, exchanging stiff pleasantries with a judge and two foreign investors. His profile is marble-still, that unreadable mask he wears whenever duty trumps desire. Not once has he glanced my way, let alone offered a hand for the dance now filling the floor.
Mila shifts at my side, clutching her small purse with both hands, eyes bright as she watches the couples spin. Maksimappears, moving with quiet efficiency, and bends so he’s eye level with her. “Would you like another lemonade, little star?” he asks, then lifts his gaze to mine. “If you wish, Nadya, I can keep an eye on her while you enjoy the waltz.”
I open my mouth, caught between gratitude and embarrassment, but no words come out. How do I explain that the man who brought me here is treating me as though I don’t exist? Instead I manage a small nod, smoothing Mila’s hair. “Stay with Uncle Maksim and be good,” I whisper. She beams, pleased at being included in grown-up plans, and follows him toward a side table laden with fruit tarts.
Alone now, I hover at the edge of the dance floor, the crimson silk of my dress suddenly feeling too bright beneath the chandeliers.
The music rises, and the dancers turn. I inhale, steadying myself, and wonder if any of them can see how carefully I keep my shoulders straight, my chin lifted, while inside I count the silent beats between every measure, hoping—just once—that Konstantin’s eyes might find mine before the song ends.
I linger at the very edge of the ballroom, hands folded, heart thrumming in time with the music I’m not dancing to. The couples spin and glide, laughter drifting like confetti through the golden haze, and I feel almost invisible, draped in silk and bravado but anchored by a single, growing ache.
Someone steps into my line of vision. I sense him first—broad-shouldered, suit a little less perfect than the rest, but his presence sure and warm. He bows, just a hint, and extends a hand.
“May I have you for a dance?”
The words catch me off guard. My polite decline is already on my tongue—I shouldn’t, my husband—when I finally lift my eyes and the world tilts. It’s Rifat.
My pulse leaps. “What are you doing here?” I whisper, eyes wide, barely moving my lips.
