Chapter 19
NADYA
“I’m not taking you to your apartment,” Konstantin says, his voice clipped, eyes locked on the rearview mirror. “That’ll lead them straight to it.”
“Well, thank you, Sherlock,” I snap, even as my pulse kicks up. “So what’s the plan?”
He doesn’t answer. Just grits his jaw like he’s fighting the urge to punch the wheel.
I look behind us. Yep. Still there. Taillights flash every time we switch lanes. Smooth. Subtle. But not subtle enough.
“Take the next left,” I say suddenly.
He glances at me.
“There’s a place a block from here,” I say quickly. “Kavinsky’s. Corner of Bexley and Third. Good sightlines, two exits, always busy this time of day. We go in like we’re stopping for dinner, and if they follow us, we’ll know for sure.”
He glances at me, just for a second, and there’s a flicker of something like appreciation in his eyes. “You sure you weren’t made for this?”
“Let’s just say motherhood teaches you how to think fast and act faster.”
We don’t speak again until he pulls up outside the restaurant, tires rolling to a smooth stop. It’s small, intimate, bustling just enough to not feel suspicious. As we step out of the car and make our way to the entrance, Konstantin slides in close behind me.
He touches my back the moment we approach the front door. Not guiding. Claiming. His hand spreads warm over my spine, slow and deliberate, just enough pressure to make it clear we’re not a random pair.
But then his palm starts to slide. Down. Lower.
“Really?” I mutter under my breath, twisting my neck just enough to glare at him. “Now’s the time you decide to cop a feel?”
His lips twitch. “Keeping appearances.”
“Your hand is on my ass.”
“It’s a very convincing appearance,” he murmurs smoothly, eyes gleaming.
I elbow him—not hard, but with purpose.
He chuckles. Chuckles, the smug bastard, as he opens the restaurant door for me like he’s some gentleman and not a walking felony wrapped in a tailored coat.
We step inside, warm light washing over us, the scent of garlic and something expensive in the air. A hostess looks up, ready to greet us, and just like that, we slip into our roles again. Calm. Collected. Unbothered.
Except my pulse is thudding in my throat, and Konstantin’s palm still lingers on my lower back, like he can’t quite help himself.
“Don’t push it,” I murmur through a tight smile as the hostess leads us to a corner booth.
He leans in close, mouth near my ear. “You didn’t exactly stop me.”
“Oh, believe me, I will if you try it again.”
But the truth? My skin is still burning.
As we slide into the booth, I cast a quick glance outside. The SUV doesn’t park, but it slows as it passes.
They’re still watching.
I glance across the booth at Konstantin, who’s discreetly scanning the street, jaw set like iron. “We need to know who we’re dealing with,” I whisper, glancing casually around the crowded restaurant. “We can’t just guess.”
He looks at me sharply. “You have something in mind?”
“Stay here,” I say, already sliding smoothly out of the booth. “Pretend we’re fighting. It won’t be a stretch for you.”
He scowls, but I don’t wait for an answer—I slip around a passing waiter, weaving gracefully through the busy dining area toward the back corridor.
I spot the narrow staircase to the second-floor dining balcony—a private area that overlooks the street below—and move quickly, pushing through the “Staff Only” sign like it isn’t even there.
Once upstairs, I swiftly step out onto the small balcony overlooking the outdoor seating. It’s deserted, thankfully. One quick glance down gives me a clear view of the street and the SUV idling across from the restaurant, just out of easy sight.
But not clear enough. I need faces.
I grip the edge of the balcony railing, quickly assessing my options. To the left, a narrow ledge runs around the outside wall. About six inches wide—barely enough to hold my weight, but enough.
I swing one leg over the railing, balancing carefully. My heart hammers, but my breath remains calm, even. I move swiftly, stepping onto the narrow ledge, one hand gripping the wall tightly for support. Adrenaline courses through me, sharpening my focus.
One step. Two.
Easy, Nadya. You’ve done worse than this.
The ledge feels slippery beneath my shoes, rain-soaked from earlier, but I keep my eyes fixed straight ahead, breathing slow and steady. I inch forward until I’m in position—perfectly hidden from view but with a clear vantage point of the SUV parked across the street.
I take my phone from my pocket, steadying myself. I open the camera, zooming in carefully, finger hovering, ready—
And then the passenger-side door swings open.
My heart spikes. I lean forward, precariously balanced as a man emerges—tall, bulky, jacket pulled tight around his frame. He glances both ways up and down the street, revealing his face clearly.
I snap the picture, heart hammering.
Then a second man steps out from the driver’s side. Older, harder. Scar above his left eye. He walks around the car, speaking quietly to his companion. Another clear angle. Another quick snap.
I got them.
I start easing back along the ledge, carefully retracing my steps, just as a harsh voice shouts from below, “Hey! What the hell are you doing up there?”
I freeze. My gaze darts down to see a restaurant employee pointing, eyes wide, confused.
I swallow hard. No choice now but to move fast.
I sprint the last few inches along the ledge and leap back onto the balcony, landing silently, perfectly balanced, heart racing. Smoothly, as if nothing happened, I slip back down the stairs, walking fast but not running.
When I step back into the dining room, Konstantin is already standing, tense, ready to come after me. His eyes narrow in suspicion and relief when he sees me. “What did you—”
“Let’s go,” I whisper, sliding my arm casually through his as if nothing happened. “I got the pictures.”
“You got the—” He blinks, then glances at me with new admiration. “How?”
“You really don’t want to know.”
“Actually, I think I do,” he murmurs, looking at me as though I’ve suddenly become an even bigger mystery to him.
But we don’t have time. I guide us out quickly, heart still pumping fast, glancing briefly over my shoulder at the confused staff and curious diners.
Outside, the SUV is gone, leaving only empty pavement and the gentle hiss of tires on wet asphalt.
Konstantin watches me silently as we hurry to our car.
“Tell me,” he demands once we’re safely inside.
“Later,” I reply, breathless. “Right now, we need to figure out who those men are.”
He nods, eyes serious, his hand slipping gently over mine, squeezing briefly. A silent acknowledgment passes between us—something new, something powerful.
And maybe, just maybe, a little trust.
When we finally pull up to the old brick building that houses my apartment, I hesitate, gripping the handle of the car door tightly. I glance toward Konstantin, my stomach in knots. This place feels too intimate to share with him, too personal.
He reads my hesitation instantly. “I’m coming up,” he says, quietly firm. “It’s safer that way.”
I nod reluctantly, stepping out onto the pavement, the streetlights casting pale orange pools on the rain-soaked sidewalk. The building looks worn, ordinary—nothing like his world, and yet it holds everything of mine.
The stairwell echoes softly as we climb to the third floor. The silence between us is heavy, filled with unspoken truths and half-formed apologies. My heart pounds unevenly as I unlock the apartment door, leading him into the tiny living room that smells of crayons and laundry soap.
His gaze sweeps slowly around the small space.
I see it through his eyes—the modest furniture, the scattered toys, Mila’s drawings pinned haphazardly to the fridge, Nikolai’s carefully stacked picture books.
He pauses by the kitchen counter, fingers lightly grazing a small plastic dinosaur Nikolai left behind.
“Is this where you raised them?” he asks, voice quiet, gentle—almost reverent.
I swallow thickly, nodding. “From the moment they were born. This is…home.”
He turns to face me, something raw in his eyes. “It feels safe.”
“That was the idea,” I murmur. “It’s not much, but it’s ours.”
His gaze lingers on the pictures on the fridge again, his expression softening. “They’ve been happy here.”
I nod, fighting sudden tears. “I’ve tried. But…it hasn’t been easy.”
He looks at me, regret shadowing his features. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here, Nadya. I didn’t know—”
“I know you didn’t,” I interrupt gently, surprising myself. “And I’m starting to believe that.”
We finish indexing the pills and test reports on my tiny kitchen table, paperwork stacked in crooked towers that look as exhausted as I feel.
Konstantin prowls around the living room like a caged panther, brushing dust from the back of a picture frame, asking too many questions about why the smoke alarm blinks every third second.
His restlessness is almost endearing—almost.
He flicks a glance over his shoulder, smirks. “Hard to believe you raised two terrors in a shoebox like this. You sure you didn’t lose one behind the sofa?”
I arch a brow. “Keep talking, Bratva boy. You might end up behind the sofa.”
He laughs—deep, smug—and strides closer, clearly itching to test the line I just drew. “Show me.” His tone is teasing, but the challenge thrums beneath it.
I set the files aside and step around the coffee table. Before he can blink, I hook my foot behind his ankle, pivot my hips, and flip him flat onto the rug with a soft whump. Shock widens his eyes for half a heartbeat. Then his pride catches up, and he’s half grinning, half scowling up at me.
“What the—”
I straddle him before he can recover, bracing a knee against his chest. “You were saying?”
“Where the hell did you learn that?” he growls, propping on his elbows.
I shrug.