Page 80 of Bratva Bride
He finally speaks, voice low, words falling into the space between us. “Nadya, you can talk to me. Please.”
I keep my eyes straight ahead, my jaw set. The pain and anger won’t let me answer. Every time I think I have nothing left to lose, I lose more. We pass an alley, a shuttered bakery, the shadows crowding in closer. Mila squeezes my fingers, looking up at me for reassurance. I give her the smallest smile I can manage, just enough to keep her calm.
A lump rises in my throat, hot and bitter. I can barely speak past it. “Whatever was between us died with Nikolai.”
He shakes his head. “Nikolai isn’t dead. Don’t let them come between us, Nadya. Don’t let them do this to us.”
I meet his gaze, steady and unflinching. “Nobody came between us, Konstantin. You did.”
I stop on the sidewalk, my hand tightening around Mila’s. My heart is pounding, every nerve raw, and I know what I need to do. I turn to Konstantin, my voice flat and final. “I’m going to call my dad. Give me your phone.”
He hesitates, pain flickering across his face. “Don’t do this, Nadya.”
“It’s over,” I say, shaking my head. “I give up. I’m leaving the city.”
He steps closer, desperation leaking into his voice. “Please, Nadya. Don’t go. Don’t do this to us. Don’t do this to Mila.”
I stare at him, tears burning behind my eyes. “No, Konstantin. It’s over.”
He stands there in the middle of the empty street, wounded and helpless. For once, there is nothing he can say. I turn away, leading Mila forward, the sound of our footsteps the only thing left between us.
I stand in my old bedroom, the one that never truly felt like mine. The night outside is still and black, the city’s chaos replaced by the hush of my father’s apartment. I fold Mila’s little sweaters into a neat stack, pressing each one flat as if I can organize my fear by smoothing out the wrinkles.
My father stands in the doorway, arms crossed, worry lining his face. “You can’t be serious, Nadya.”
I meet his eyes, my hands shaking as I tuck the last shirt into the bag. “I am.”
He moves closer, lowering his voice. “Where will you go? You think running will make you safe?”
I zip the suitcase shut and sit on the edge of the bed, hugging Mila’s backpack to my chest. “We leave. Soon. Or I’ll lose Mila too.” My voice is barely more than a whisper. “I’m not going to wait here for that to happen. I can’t.”
He watches me for a long moment, then sits beside me, resting his hand gently on my shoulder. For the first time in years, I let myself lean into his touch, exhaustion settling into my bones.
“We’ll figure it out, Nadya,” he says quietly. “I promise. Whatever it takes, we’ll keep her safe.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat.
Pyotr watches me finish packing, his brow still furrowed with worry. He stands in the doorway, arms folded tight. “Let me get you both some soup. You need to eat something, Nadya. We canwait it out for tonight and leave first thing in the morning, all right?”
I nod, too tired to argue. “Thank you, Papa.” My voice is small, but I mean it. The weight of the day presses against my chest, every muscle aching with exhaustion.
He squeezes my shoulder once before stepping out of the room, his footsteps echoing softly down the hall.
As soon as I hear the kitchen door click shut, I reach into my pocket and pull out a phone. Not mine, not Konstantin’s, but heavy and unfamiliar. I turn it over in my palm, my heart thudding. The case is cracked, the screen smeared with someone else’s blood. Kirov’s phone.
I unlock the phone, hands shaking, pulse roaring in my ears. Kirov never bothered with a passcode—maybe he thought no one would dare steal from him, or maybe he just didn’t expect to die tonight. Either way, the screen lights up, and I swipe through the darkness, praying for something, anything.
His call log is a mess of unknown numbers and cryptic contact names. The most recent calls are all outgoing—one to “V,” one to a series of digits with a Russian country code, and several unanswered attempts to a number saved as “MOTHER.”
I move to his messages. There’s a thread with “V”—the texts are terse, full of threats and times and locations. The last one makes my skin crawl:
At the river. Bring the kid. K will show. Don’t let the wife leave.
I scroll further. One chain of texts is in code, but a few words stand out: “warehouse,” “package moved,” “old city docks,” “Alexei confirmed.”
Photos too. I flip to the gallery and see a picture of Nikolai, taken just days ago. He’s alive. My hands fly to my mouth, tears blurring my vision. There are pictures of other children—some with faces blurred, some not. Each is tagged with a location, most of them coordinates near the port and old industrial parts of the city.
There’s one voice message, recent. I put the phone to my ear, heart pounding.
