Page 39 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
The room smells of smoke and leather, of vodka evaporated from glasses left too long on the desk. The air is colder here, still, like the space remembers all the orders given within it. Shadows stretch across the walls, cast by the single lamp left burning on the corner of his desk.
I move quickly, quietly. Every drawer is locked, heavy and stubborn when I test them. Everyone except one.
It slides open with a faint scrape. Inside: an envelope, thick and worn at the edges. No name, no markings, nothing to suggest what it hides. My pulse leaps.
I slide it free, fingers trembling, and pull back the flap.
Photographs spill into the light. Black and white, grainy, taken from a distance. Men leaving cars, standing in alleys, shaking hands in dimly lit corners. At first, they blur together—faces I don’t recognize, movements too ordinary.
Then I see him.
My father.
The photo is dark, but there’s no mistaking him. His shoulders hunched in the way I remember, his profile sharp even in grain. He’s standing beside another man, their heads bent close, speaking in a way that looks urgent even without sound.
The other man’s face is clearer. Gabriel Moreno.
The name that’s been haunting the air for weeks.
The blood drains from my face. My stomach knots so tightly it hurts.
Why is my father here? Why with this man? The last I knew, he was nowhere near this world—messy and unreliable, yes, but not tangled in this. Not standing side by side with a name that makes seasoned men in Dimitri’s circle stiffen.
I grip the desk for balance, the photos shaking in my hand.
A thousand questions rush through me, choking. Did Dimitri know when he took me? Did he bring me into this house because of my father, because of what he’s done, or who he’s standing with?
My throat burns. I don’t have time for answers.
My phone is slick in my hand as I unlock it, snap a single picture of the photograph, and put it back before the sound can betray me. I slide the photos back, tucking the envelope into the drawer exactly where I found it.
My pulse thunders in my ears, loud enough I’m sure the walls must hear it. I wipe my fingerprints from the edge of the envelope with the hem of my sleeve, push the drawer shut until it clicks into place, and force myself to breathe.
The hallway outside is still empty when I slip back into it. My steps feel heavier now, the shadows thicker. Every sound echoes sharper, every draft against my skin colder.
I retreat to my room with the photograph burning in my pocket like a secret too dangerous to carry.
When I shut the door, leaning hard against it, my breath stutters. The image won’t leave me: my father’s face, my father’s shoulders, bent close to the man Dimitri’s enemies whisper about in tones laced with warning.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, clutching the phone so tightly it cuts into my palm. The photo glows up at me, grainy but undeniable.
Gabriel Moreno, and my father. Together.
The air in the room feels thin, suffocating. I press my hand to my chest, willing my heart to steady, but it doesn’t.
The pieces are shifting, and I’m caught in the middle. Dimitri doesn’t even know yet that I’ve seen them.
***
The next day, he doesn’t give me time to think.
Morning barely settles over the estate before a guard knocks at my door, his voice clipped: “You’re wanted.” I dress quickly, heart still knotted around the secret buried in my phone, and follow the path I know too well now—down corridors lined with watchful eyes, into the waiting car where Dimitri sits like the storm given flesh.
He doesn’t explain. He never does. “With me” is all he says, his tone brooking no refusal.
The city is gray and damp, last night’s rain still clinging to the streets. I sit beside him in silence, my palms pressed flat against my thighs to stop their trembling. Every mile pulls me closer to answers I’m not ready for, yet can’t stop chasing.
The warehouse looms at the edge of the docks, its walls stained with salt and time, its doors guarded by men who scan us with sharp, restless eyes. Inside, the air smells of iron and oil, the light thin and cold. Tables are set up, papers and maps spread across them.
