Chapter 1 Nadya #2
But the truth, the one they can’t see, is that we’re crumbling.
His touch is desperate, almost painful, like a man clinging to the edge of a cliff.
For a week now, we’ve been living in a house haunted by absence—by Mila’s silence, by Nikolai’s empty bed, by the memory of blood we can’t wash away.
We don’t sleep. We barely speak, except to argue or make plans or remind each other to keep breathing.
Some nights, I hear him pacing the hallway until dawn, cane tapping out a quiet, frantic rhythm on the floorboards; other nights, it’s me who can’t close my eyes, replaying the sound of gunfire, of Mila’s screams, of doors that won’t open.
His hand squeezes mine, harder now, and I squeeze back, forcing myself to stay upright, to give them what they want—a united front, a reason to believe in something indestructible. The only thing holding us together is the fact that everything else has already fallen apart.
Konstantin’s grip on my hand tightens for a moment, then he lets go, knuckles white as he leans forward and fixes the table with a stare that could freeze blood.
“I lost my son,” he says, his voice stripped of all pretense, the pain barely contained.
“I lost everything. I’m not going to sit here and give you explanations for rumors you create to entertain yourselves.
If I had to kill any of you, I already would have.
We wouldn’t be having this conversation. ”
The words drop like iron weights, dragging the air down with them. There’s no threat, no bluster—just the simple, brutal truth that makes more than one man avert his gaze. Even Malenkov has the sense to shut up.
But then, halfway down the table, a man I’ve barely noticed until now leans back, all easy arrogance and slow amusement, like he’s been waiting for this moment.
He’s older, well-dressed in a suit that fits better than most, silver hair combed back from a weathered face, eyes sharp but never still.
There’s something about him that tugs at the edge of my memory, a familiarity I can’t place, but I file it away for later.
He raises his glass in a gesture that’s too casual to be real. “We didn’t mean to anger you, Konstantin. None of us did.” His smirk is almost friendly, but there’s a chill under it, something calculating. “It’s just—these are dangerous times. Men get nervous. Questions get asked.”
The others seem to relax a little, reassured by his calm, as if he’s smoothing over a mess only he can see. But I notice how he doesn’t quite meet my eyes, and how the corner of his mouth never really stops twitching, like he’s holding back a joke only he understands.
Konstantin doesn’t answer right away. He sits back, one hand on the table, the other falling to his cane, his expression unreadable.
I watch the older man, trying to match his face to a name, to a rumor, to anything I might have missed in the chaos of the last week.
He’s too confident for someone with no stake in the outcome, but he’s clever enough not to push further, at least not tonight.
For now, the moment passes. Someone refills a glass.
Another man mutters about the price of loyalty, or the weather, or some distant skirmish that has nothing to do with the hole at the center of our lives.
The meeting grinds on, but I keep my eyes on the older man, just long enough for him to notice.
He smiles, polite as poison, then looks away. And I know, with a certainty that tightens my chest, that our problems are only just beginning.
The meeting drags on a little longer—territories discussed, alliances whispered about, old feuds carefully set aside with the kind of restraint that never lasts.
But nothing else is settled. There are no answers for the blood spilled or for Nikolai’s absence, just more uncertainty waiting to be unpacked behind closed doors.
When Konstantin stands, I follow him, ignoring the way the conversation dips as we pass. I keep my back straight, my expression unreadable, but every nerve is thrumming. I can feel the room watching us go, weighing what they saw, making plans.
At the door, the older man from the table intercepts us. Up close, he seems taller, his presence filling the entryway in a way that’s hard to ignore. His cologne is expensive, subtle, and he wears confidence like another layer of clothing.
He smiles, easy and practiced, extending his hand to Konstantin.
“You must let me introduce myself properly. I’m Viktor Sokolov,” he says, rolling the name out like he expects it to mean something.
“My apologies for the earlier…excitement. I’m sure you understand the importance of questions, even if the timing isn’t always ideal. ”
Konstantin shakes his hand, guarded but civil, and I offer a polite nod, the kind that says I’m watching, not welcoming. Viktor’s eyes flick over me, assessing, not unkind but far from innocent.
“You should come see my place sometime,” Viktor continues, his tone smooth as velvet. “Not just a club—think of it as my grand casino. The best of Moscow, brought here. Cards, music, whatever you desire. A more…private setting for conversation, should you need it.”
There’s something in his voice that hints at more than cards or champagne. A promise or a challenge, I can’t tell which. He hands Konstantin a small, heavy business card, the kind you don’t throw away, embossed with nothing but a name and an address.
“Consider it a standing invitation,” Viktor says, voice low and pleasant, but I catch the edge underneath. “Anytime.”
Konstantin smiles, all teeth and no warmth. “We’ll keep it in mind.”
Viktor nods, holding my gaze just a second longer than necessary before slipping back toward the remaining guests, already blending in, already disappearing.
As we step into the cool night, I tuck the card into my clutch, the weight of it oddly reassuring and foreboding at once. Next to me, Konstantin’s jaw is tight, his expression unreadable, but I know he feels the same chill creeping down his spine.
The Bratva is never just business. And tonight, I know we’ve just been invited into a different kind of game—one that’s only beginning.