Page 152 of Bratva Bidder
Not from Dmitry, not from his enemies, not from the Bratva. For once, life held its breath and exhaled in peace.
I sit down on a striped blanket spread across the sand. The wind flutters the corners, and I weigh them down with the beach bag and one of Konstantin’s boots. I can feel the sun warming the fabric beneath my thighs, the grains of sand sticking stubbornly to my knees. I watch Mila tug Nikolai toward the water, coaxing him to wade in ankle-deep, and I smile despite myself. She’s always been the braver one.
“Careful!” I call, though my voice lacks conviction. I’m not worried. Not today.
A shadow falls across me and then lowers itself to the blanket beside me. Konstantin, shirt half-unbuttoned, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, glistening slightly from the jog he just took down the shore. He hands me a bottle of water, twisting the cap off before I even ask.
“Thanks.” I take a sip and lean against his shoulder. “You were gone a while.”
“Had to make sure we’re the only mafia family on this beach.” His voice is warm, amused.
“And?”
“Just some tourists from Germany. Loud ones.”
“Then we’ll let them live,” I murmur.
He chuckles, low in his chest, and kisses the top of my head. We sit for a few minutes without speaking, watching the kids chase the foam as it pulls away from the shore.
“Remember when you said I married a lunatic?” I say, smiling softly.
Konstantin snorts. “Still true. But I’m the lunatic now. You’re the one holding it all together.”
I tilt my head back to look at him. His face is relaxed, his features open in a way they never were back in Los Angeles or Moscow or any of the places where power required armor. Here, he looks like a man who finally put down his sword.
“You’ve changed,” I whisper.
“So have you.”
We let the silence stretch again, but it’s comfortable now, like an old quilt. I rest my head against his shoulder and watch our children live in a world we clawed open for them.
Irina jogs back toward us, out of breath, holding Mila’s sandal and shaking her head. “She says she doesn’t need shoes anymore. That she’s a sea creature now.”
“She might not be wrong,” I say with a laugh, patting the blanket beside me.
Irina sinks onto it, smoothing her skirt. “I haven’t seen him smile like that in months.” She’s watching Nikolai now. “Thank you. For taking him here.”
I reach over and squeeze her hand. “Thank you for helping us get through it.”
“Bah,” she says, waving me off. “You’re the mother. You did the hardest part.”
“I think Dmitry might disagree,” Konstantin mutters, and we all look at each other for a long moment. The name still hangs heavy in the air, even now.
“He hasn’t made a move,” Irina says quietly. “It’s strange, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I answer. “But maybe he doesn’t want to.”
“You believe that?”
I want to. God, I want to. I want to believe that something changed in that hospital room. That maybe love, or guilt, or fear of death, carved a hollow in Dmitry’s iron heart and made room for something softer.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
Konstantin stands and brushes sand from his hands. “Let’s not waste the day trying to figure out a man who’s made a career out of being unpredictable.”
He offers his hand, and I take it, letting him pull me up. We walk toward the water, shoes forgotten, Irina following behind. Nikolai turns as we approach and smiles—a slow, wide smile that lights up every part of him. I crouch beside him and ruffle his damp hair.
“Having fun, baby?”
