Chapter 5 Nadya
NADYA
Arman’s new place isn’t anything like the penthouses I used to visit as a child, or his suite at the Astoria.
It’s tucked behind tall hedges on a quiet street where the city noise feels distant and every car that drives by gets a second glance.
The house itself is sprawling but discreet—painted a sun-bleached taupe with windows tinted against curious neighbors and a front porch shadowed by blooming citrus trees.
There are two black SUVs parked out front, the sort you only notice when you’re taught to look for muscle.
Inside, the air is cool and crisp, faintly scented with the Turkish coffee I grew up with.
The hallway opens up into a wide living room filled with low leather chairs, battered trunks doubling as tables, and the kind of careful mess that says men live here but don’t intend to stay long.
I catch the murmur of voices from the kitchen—two men and a woman, strangers, their accents clipped.
One of the men, tall and wiry, stands as I enter. “You must be Nadya,” he says, nodding with the respect reserved for someone important, or someone dangerous. “I’m Rifat. Arman’s expecting you. Coffee?”
I nod, offering a small smile, and he slips past, his movements quiet, purposeful. The other two watch me, not unkind but definitely curious, sizing me up. I recognize the look—it’s the same one I give new faces in dangerous places.
Arman appears from the kitchen, his shirtsleeves rolled, a gold chain glinting at his collar. He hugs me tight, then steps back to study my face, worry and pride tangled in his gaze. “Come, sit,” he says, steering me toward a sunlit corner of the room.
We settle into the battered armchairs, and Rifat sets a thick cup of coffee on the table beside me, the aroma grounding me in memory.
For a moment, I let myself relax, breathing in the comfort of old rituals.
The others fade into the background, leaving us in the hush of afternoon light and old leather chairs.
My uncle watches me, taking in every detail like he’s checking for wounds.
After a moment, he asks, “You heard anything from your father?”
I shake my head, the memory flaring bright and painful. “Not since the night everything went to hell.” My voice sounds strange even to me, thick with things I haven’t said out loud. “He showed up at our place—the night of the rehearsal dinner. He tried to warn me.”
I look up, the words coming out bitter and raw. “A warning doesn’t erase what he did. He kept saying he was sorry, that he couldn’t fix it. But it doesn’t change the fact that he’s the one who leaked our location to Alexei in the first place. He’s the reason the massacre happened.”
Arman’s expression tightens. He doesn’t try to excuse Pyotr, just lets the truth settle in the space between us. “He always did find ways to hurt people while convincing himself it was for the greater good,” he says quietly.
My grip on the cup tightens. “I keep thinking I should hate him for it. And maybe I do. Maybe I’ll never forgive him. But part of me still wants to know where he is. Part of me wants him to come back and explain—” I shake my head. “But even if he did, it wouldn’t change anything.”
Arman leans forward, his voice soft but certain, the accent of my mother’s childhood still in the way he says my name.
“You don’t owe him forgiveness, Nadya. Not for what happened.
You only owe yourself and your family the truth—and a way forward.
If Pyotr ever resurfaces, you decide what comes next. ”
I look up, the room swimming for a moment in sunlight and regret. “He was my father,” I whisper. “But he made his choice. I have to live with the consequences.”
Arman nods, his loyalty unspoken but absolute. “And you won’t do it alone. Not while I’m here.” He sits back in his chair, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on a spot somewhere just past my shoulder.
For a moment, the only sound is the distant thump of music from a neighbor’s backyard and the clink of Rifat washing dishes in the kitchen.
“I know you’re angry,” Arman says finally, his voice low.
“And you have every right to be. Pyotr’s sins are his own.
What happened that night—that’s not on you.
But you can’t let the past make you blind to what’s ahead.
” He holds my gaze, and I hear the edge of command in his tone, the same voice he used when I was a girl and he was teaching me to break a grip or read a room.
“Right now, you need to focus on your children. On getting Nikolai back.”
I nod, swallowing past the burn in my throat. “I just keep replaying it, over and over. Wondering if I missed something—if there’s a trail I haven’t seen.”
I study the photos and scraps of information tacked up on Arman’s board, none of them giving me what I need. Alexei’s face is there, along with half a dozen low-level men I recognize from old family gatherings and police reports, but nothing links directly to Nikolai. It’s all rumor and guesswork.
Arman stands with his arms folded, brow furrowed, staring at a note scrawled in blocky handwriting. “I’ve been asking around,” he says. “Alexei isn’t working alone, but whoever’s helping him isn’t one of the usual suspects. No one on the street knows anything. Every time I push, it goes cold.”
I pace the small den, frustration bleeding into every step. “There has to be another angle. Something we’re missing. If they moved Nikolai after the attack, they needed help—maybe not muscle, maybe something quieter.”
Arman’s gaze flicks to a folder near the edge of the table.
“I have a contact at city hall—she’s picked up whispers about someone making inquiries with child services.
Someone asking about emergency placements, and about keeping certain names out of public records.
It’s bureaucratic, careful. Someone covering their tracks with paperwork, not guns. ”
The idea settles over me, heavy and nauseating. “They could have hidden him in plain sight,” I say. “Hospital records, foster care, maybe even a private shelter—somewhere we’d never think to look first.”
Arman nods, flipping his phone over in his hand. “I’ve got people who can check. It’s slow work, and it means calling in favors. But if Alexei passed Nikolai off to someone outside the family, the paper trail is our best bet.”
I cross my arms, staring at the photo of Nikolai pinned to the center of the board. “If he’s out there, I’ll find him. I don’t care how many doors I have to kick down.”
Arman squeezes my shoulder—maternal family affection in his touch, his loyalty unwavering. “We’ll check every file, talk to every nurse, every social worker. Start with your contacts at the hospitals, I’ll handle city hall.”
I nod.
“You need to meet the people I trust,” he says. “If we’re going to dig through official systems and start rattling doors, you can’t do it alone. And I won’t always be the one walking beside you.”
He leads me down a side corridor into a wide room that was once a library.
The heavy drapes are drawn, muting the afternoon glare; what little light filters in glints off radios, first-aid packs, and gear bags stacked where novels used to sit.
A long table dominates the center, spread with street maps and two open laptops streaming data feeds.
The first person who looks up is the same man who greeted me at the door with coffee—Rifat.
He’s tall, rangy, cheeks shadowed where he hasn’t bothered to shave for a couple days.
A faint scar crosses his brow, and I notice an earpiece coiled behind his collar.
He gives a small nod and shifts aside to let us pass, one eye still on the driveway through a slit in the curtains.
Arman rests a hand on my shoulder. “You already met Rifat. He handles transport, safe houses, gear—anything that moves or needs hiding, he’s two steps ahead. If we change plans at three a.m., he’s got a van running at three-oh-five.”
Rifat’s smile is quick, gone in a breath. “Routes are mapped and fueled,” he says, voice low and even. “Just say when.”
Near the table, a compact woman in a charcoal sweater slides vials into a hard-sided kit. Blond braid looped tight, eyes the color of granite, she checks each label twice before snapping the case shut.
“Katya,” Arman says. “Field medic. Ten years patching people up where the war never quite stops. She knows every night-shift nurse from Santa Monica to Glendale.”
Katya offers a firm handshake, her gaze assessing but warm. “If a child comes through an ER under a false name, I’ll hear about it,” she promises, her Russian accent soft but unmistakable.
Across the table, the glow of two monitors paints shifting code onto the angular features of a man. “And that’s Dima,” Arman says, gesturing to the nerdy guy. He turns around to look at us, pushing his wire-frame glasses up his nose, fingers never pausing on the keyboard.
“Surveillance, databases, comms,” Arman explains. “If there’s a camera pointed at a door, Dima’s already looping the feed.”
Dima swivels half a turn, gives a quick wave, then keys in another line. “Pulling last quarter’s pediatric-admission logs now,” he says. “Sealed records open in ten minutes.”
Arman turns back to me, his voice settling into something close to gentle command. “These three are yours as much as mine. Whatever you need—routes, clinics, digital trails—they’ll make it happen.”
I glance from Rifat’s watchful calm to Katya’s quiet certainty to Dima’s restless focus. No one looks at me with pity; they’re already assembling the search like a puzzle they intend to solve.
“Tomorrow at first light,” I say, drawing a breath that feels steadier than any I’ve taken in two weeks.
“We start with hospitals and shelters. Katya—lean on your contacts for any unexplained child transfers. Rifat—keep the van flexible, routes randomized. Dima—I want every foster-placement record flagged for under-the-table adjustments.”
They nod in unison. Plans unfold—markers sliding across the map, numbers exchanged, favors queued. The library is no longer a relic; it’s a command post.
When there’s a moment of quiet, Katya flips open her medical kit, fishing out a foil pack.
“What’s that?” I ask. My pulse thrums. Things are moving too fast, and for a moment, I can’t help but think about what I’ve dragged myself into.
But then Katya holds up the bag. I blink. “Is that…” I trail off.
“Bribe of choice,” she says, shaking it. “Gummy bears. They work on children…and adults who forget to eat.”
Rifat leans against a bookcase. “They’re her universal cure. Bullet wound? Gummy bear. Broken heart? Double portion.”
I raise a brow. This was unexpected. “Is there a flavor hierarchy?”
“Green first,” Katya answers without hesitation. “Everything else negotiable.”
Dima finally tears his eyes from the screen, pushing his glasses up. “Green? That’s chaos. Everyone knows red rules the pack.”
“You would say that,” Katya fires back. “You sort files by hex code.”
Rifat chuckles, arms folded. “He also labels his coffee mugs by ASCII value. True story.”
“That was one time.” Dima’s cheeks color faintly. “Besides, caffeine deserves respect.”
“How about this,” I say, easing into a chair. “Next meeting we blind-taste every color. Winner sets the playlist.”
Rifat perks up. “You just guaranteed we finally retire Dima’s ‘Synthwave for Hackers’ loop.”
Dima spreads his hands. “The bass line improves focus. Science.”
“Your science, maybe.” Katya laughs. “To me it sounds like microwaves having feelings.”
The easy back-and-forth settles inside me like warm broth.
Arman watches from the doorway, eyes soft. “Good. If you can argue about candy, you can trust each other when it counts.”
I glance at each of them. Rifat’s quiet vigilance, Katya’s dry humor, Dima’s restless curiosity—different from Konstantin’s guardroom bravado, but strong in its own way. For the first time all day, my shoulders ease.
Katya slides the gummy-bear packet across the table toward me. “Take it. Emergencies only.”
I slip it into my pocket. “Deal.”
Arman checks his watch, then tilts his head toward the hall. “I’ll walk you out.”
At the door Rifat, hands me a fresh travel mug. “Same roast,” he says. “Lighter on the rocket fuel.”
“Thank you.” I smile. “I’ll need it to face LA traffic.”
Outside, the air is cool, faintly citrus from the trees along the drive. Arman rests a hand on my arm. “Get some rest tonight,” he murmurs. “Tomorrow will come soon enough.”
I slide into the driver’s seat, the gummy bears rustling in my pocket like a promise, and head for home—carrying with me the first glimmer of hope I’ve felt since Nikolai disappeared.