Page 16 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
The estate breathes like a living thing. Guards rotate in shifts, two at the north gate, one always stationed in the west hall, two more at the garage. The kitchen has an entrance that isn’t as heavily patrolled—delivery trucks roll through every morning and evening, and the men barely glance at them after the first check.
I file it all away, replaying the details in my head every night while staring at the carved ceiling above my bed.
I don’t ask questions, not directly. Instead, I listen. I watch the way Sergei, one of the younger guards, checks his watch too often, like he’s still not used to the hours. His eyes dart when someone gives him an order, not defiant, but cautious. He’s greener than the others, still trying to prove he belongs.
So I talk to him.
Not in ways that stand out—just a passing comment when he walks me down a hall, a joke about the food when he lingers near the kitchen, a casual question when he escorts me outside for air. His answers are short, nervous, clipped. But nerves make people sloppy.
“Does it always feel this cold in the halls?” I ask one afternoon, rubbing my arms like the draft got under my skin.
He shrugs. “Depends where you stand. It’s an old building. Drafts everywhere.”
“You get used to it?”
“Eventually.” He glances at me, then away. “Some halls are worse than others.”
It’s nothing, not really, but his eyes flick left when he says it, toward the north wing. I tuck it away, the way I do with everything.
Other times, it’s smaller details. He confirms without meaning to that certain doors require two access codes, not one. That Dimitri’s study has no cameras inside, only outside. That the garage alarms trigger silently, not with sirens. Each scrap builds a picture, and I hoard them like weapons I’m not allowed to carry.
When Dimitri assigns me to small errands, I treat them the same way. A delivery of documents one day, escorting a package another. He gives me no details about what’s inside, only the address, the escort, the instruction not to ask questions.
I don’t. I sit in the back seat, clipboard balanced on my lap like I’m still a gallery assistant. My eyes are everywhere but the papers.
I mark the route automatically: two left turns, three right, a stretch down a narrow street lined with shuttered shops. I count vehicles in the convoy, listen for the subtle clicks of radios, watch how pedestrians give us space as though the air around the cars is toxic. It terrifies me, the ease with which the city bends for men like Dimitri.
Yet… there’s something else under the fear. Something I don’t want to name.
Even when I’m scared, my pulse isn’t only panic. There’s a prickle under my skin that has nothing to do with dread andeverything to do with awareness. The leash he’s wrapped around me isn’t just about control—it’s about how much of me he already owns without asking.
When we return from the errand, I count the minutes between stops, track how long each guard stays outside the car, note how often Dimitri’s men scan the sidewalks. No detail is too small. They think I’m learning how to function in their world, but really, I’m trying to find its weak points.
At night, I replay everything. The way Sergei’s hand twitched when he typed a code. The stretch of wall near the garden where the shadows fall just right. The timing of the guards’ footsteps as they pass my door.
I pretend to accept my role, but beneath the surface, my mind never stops running; because even if Dimitri thinks he owns me, even if this estate is built like a cage, I refuse to believe there isn’t a way out.
Still, when I lie awake and remember the way he looked at me—the calm, unflinching weight of his eyes—I know he’s five steps ahead.
That terrifies me more than anything.
***
The balcony stares at me every night like it’s daring me to try. The French doors in my room look harmless, the glass framed in white, the iron railing outside curling like vines. It’s all too pretty, too staged. I sit on the bed, staring at them, wondering if this is the weak point.
Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I push to my feet, pad across the rug, and press my hand to the cold glass. My breath fogs a small circle as I lean in. “Let’s see what you’re hiding,” I whisper.
The handle resists, stiff under my palm. My pulse jumps when it shifts the tiniest bit, like the house is teasing me with hope. I ease it further, careful not to breathe too loud. A click answers. Sharp. Out of place.
“No, no, no,” I mutter. I freeze, ears straining. The air feels different, heavier, like the walls themselves are listening. I know then—I’ve triggered something. A silent alarm.
I yank my hand back like the metal burned me, retreating fast until my legs hit the bed. My knees buckle, dropping me onto the mattress. No one bursts through the door. No guards crash in. But I’m not stupid. Someone knows. He knows.
Sleep is impossible after that. I stare at the ceiling until dawn paints the edges of the curtains, my body tight as a bowstring.
When the guard knocks to escort me to breakfast, I school my face into something blank and rise without a word.
The dining room is as polished as ever, the long table set with silver dishes and folded napkins, sunlight pouring through tall windows. Dimitri sits at the head, posture loose but commanding. He doesn’t look up when I enter, just cuts into his food with smooth precision.
