Chapter 27 Nadya #2
I watch Konstantin pace a tight circle beside Nikolai’s bed, one hand raking through his hair, the other pressed hard to the small of his back as if he can physically hold himself together by force of will alone. He’s been pacing since Alexei left.
“How did he even find out?” he mutters, more to the wall than to me. The words sound ragged, pulled from somewhere deep and bruised.
I swallow, the answer hanging on the tip of my tongue but refusing to come out. There’s only one weak link, I think, and the thought tastes bitter. I don’t say it aloud. Not now. Not with the children watching, not with Irina still standing pale and shaken in the corner.
Instead, I cross to Mila, crouch, and press a kiss to her forehead. “Everything’s fine,” I whisper. My voice feels too thin, almost frayed, but I manage a smile.
The ride back is mostly quiet, but not the peaceful kind.
It’s the kind where your thoughts start to get loud in your head, where silence becomes pressure, not relief.
Mila sits beside me in the back seat, her tiny legs swinging as she hums a tune under her breath, still blissfully unaware of the tension curling inside my chest. Nikolai leans against her, tired from the hospital visit, his small frame pressed into her side like a shadow that clings too tight.
Konstantin doesn’t say much from the front. His hand grips the steering wheel tighter than necessary, knuckles white, the muscle in his jaw ticking now and then. I know he’s still thinking about the hospital, about Dmitry.
Later, when the children are asleep and safe under Irina’s watchful eye, we pull away from the curb, the house shrinking in the rearview mirror until only the porch light remains, a lone glow against the deepening afternoon.
Streetlamps haven’t flicked on yet, but the sky has that dull, gray-blue cast that always makes the city feel colder than it is.
Konstantin guides the SUV toward the bridge, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming an irregular rhythm against his thigh.
I recognize the pattern—planning, recalculating, second-guessing—a mind refusing to rest because resting feels like surrender.
A memory of Dmitry’s hand on Nikolai’s knee flashes, sour and vivid. I push it down, focusing on the road stretching ahead, on the conversation that’s been chewing at me since we left the ward.
“Have you thought,” I begin, keeping my voice even, “about moving him to a different hospital? Somewhere Dmitry’s reach isn’t so immediate?”
Konstantin’s jaw flexes. “I thought about it the moment he walked into that room.”
“And?”
“It won’t solve the problem,” he says, eyes fixed on the traffic flow as we merge. “It buys us a day—maybe two—before he digs up the new address. And we’d lose the team that already knows Nikolai’s charts better than they know their spouses’ birthdays.”
I nod because I’ve done the math too and reached the same grim equation. “You’re right. Too risky, too little gain.”
He glances at me, the corner of his mouth tightening. “I hate that you’re right about that.”
“So do I,” I admit. “But we can tighten the rotation, screen the staff. Maybe leverage Irina’s connections for off-hours labs.” I pause, then add, “He’s Dmitry Buryakov, but even he can’t bribe every nurse on the eastern seaboard overnight.”
Konstantin exhales through his nose. “We’ll do it. I’ll have Lev vet the night shift personally.”
I study his profile—the hard lines carved deeper these last four days, the silent strain of a father trying to outmaneuver a man who deals in inevitabilities.
“Just promise me,” I say softly, “that while you’re protecting us from him, you don’t forget Nikolai still needs you—not the soldier, not the strategist. You. ”
He doesn’t answer right away. The city slides past in muted streaks. Then he nods, a single, deliberate dip of his head. “I promise,” he says, and I believe him even if I know how heavy that promise is.
We leave the bridge behind and enter the industrial fringe where the streets grow narrower and the signage more discreet.
The bar squats at the end of a block of dented roll-up doors and faded murals.
A blue neon beer sign sputters in the grimy window, casting shuddering light onto the cracked sidewalk.
We stand in front of the bar, the battered door pulsing with bass that bleeds into the street like a bad heartbeat.
Konstantin’s shoulders tense beneath his coat as he scans the alley mouth to our left, the rooftop line to our right, every vantage point a potential nest for eyes I know he can almost feel.
“Are you sure we’ll find him here?” he asks, voice pitched low, each word drawn out as though certainty itself could protect us from the mess waiting on the other side of that door.
“I’m sure,” I answer, letting the confidence settle in my chest even though it feels like balancing on glass. “When Pyotr is scared, he doesn’t trust safe houses or friends—he trusts anonymity and cheap liquor, and this place pours both by the gallon.”
Konstantin’s expression doesn’t shift, but I know him well enough to feel the crackle of violence underneath the surface. He steps out of the car and rounds to my side without a word.
Inside, the music is too loud and the air is thick with old smoke. A few heads turn as we enter, but most of the patrons keep drinking, eyes sliding off us like oil. I spot the bartender—Arturo—nursing a toothpick and pretending not to recognize me.
I walk up to him, lean against the counter like I own it. “He’s here, isn’t he?”
Arturo doesn’t answer immediately, just glances toward the back with a faint grimace.
“Thanks,” Konstantin says coldly.
We don’t wait. We head to the back room, the door barely on its hinges, half-lit with flickering neon. Whatever we’re about to find—whoever—we’re not leaving until we get answers.
My father looks like hell.
Slouched in the cracked vinyl booth, a half-empty bottle of something cheap clutched in his hand, he barely registers us until I slide into the seat across from him. His eyes are bloodshot, and the sour stench of alcohol wafts off him in waves. His fingers twitch when he sets the bottle down.
“Well, well,” he rasps, voice rough with drink and cigarettes. “Look who finally decided to visit her old man.”
I don’t smile. I don’t blink. I just stare at him, letting the silence build like storm clouds overhead.
Konstantin remains standing, arms folded, a looming shadow at my side. He doesn’t speak either.
Pyotr laughs, short and bitter. “What’s this? You bring your husband to scold me, Nadya? Or just to show off how far you’ve come?”
“I’m not here to play games,” I say quietly. “I want answers.”
His expression shifts—still drunk, still smug, but there’s a flicker of something sharper in his gaze now. Fear, maybe. Or guilt. He leans forward, squinting. “Answers about what, sweetheart? You looking for parenting tips now?”
My fingers curl into fists beneath the table. “Don’t,” I warn. “Don’t pretend you don’t know why we’re here.”
He shrugs, but the motion is sloppy. “So enlighten me.”
Konstantin steps forward, voice ice-cold. “Someone told Dmitry about the kids. About Nikolai. He walked into that hospital like he owned it. Sat beside my son.”
Pyotr goes still. His hand trembles slightly before he snatches the bottle again. “That wasn’t me,” he mutters.
“You’re the only one who knew where we were keeping them,” I say. “You knew Nikolai was sick.”
He flinches at the last word, just barely, but I catch it. Konstantin does too.
“Dmitry isn’t the kind of man who waits,” Konstantin says, stepping closer, voice low. “If he wanted to find them, he wouldn’t start from scratch. He’d go through someone close. Someone careless. Or someone willing.”
“You think I’d sell out my own flesh and blood?” Pyotr spits. “After all I did for you—”
“All you did?” I cut in, cold rising in my throat. “You mean like leaving me with broken ribs? Or the time you locked me in the cellar because I spilled your vodka?”
He falls silent, blinking rapidly, jaw working.
“I didn’t tell him anything,” he says at last. “But…someone might’ve overheard.”
Konstantin narrows his eyes. “Who?”
He shrugs again, defensive now. “I was drunk, alright? I don’t remember who was there.”
He’s lying. I know it. I can hear it in the way his voice slips, the way his eyes dart too fast, too often. My father has always been many things—a drunk, a coward, a brute, but never a good liar. And right now, his guilt is practically sweating out of his skin.
“How much did he pay you?” I ask, voice low, but steady.
Pyotr freezes. Just for a breath. Just long enough to tell me everything I need to know.
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stammers, straightening up like that’ll somehow make him more convincing. “I didn’t—”
But I’m already standing. I don’t even realize I’ve shoved the table until it scrapes loudly across the floor.
“Don’t lie to me, Papa,” I say, the word bitter on my tongue. “You think I can’t tell when you’re lying? I grew up reading your face like a damn manual. You sold us out. You sold Nikolai out.”
“I didn’t mean for anything to happen—”
“You knew what kind of man Dmitry is. You knew what he’s capable of.”
He opens his mouth again, some excuse forming behind that sagging face, but Konstantin moves before he can get a word out. He grabs Pyotr by the collar, slamming him back into the booth with a force that rattles the table and sends the bottle rolling.
“You stay away from my family,” Konstantin growls, low and quiet, the kind of fury that hums just below the skin. “You ever breathe my son’s name again and I will put you in the ground myself.”
Pyotr sputters, hands trembling, his bravado shriveling into panic. “I—I didn’t know they’d—he just said he wanted to know, that’s all—”