Chapter 7 Nadya
NADYA
Arman is staying at a new safe house, an apartment that’s nothing like the home I shared with Mila.
The windows are narrow, set high enough to keep out street noise and prying eyes.
There’s almost no furniture—a gray sofa, a folding table littered with takeout boxes and half-drunk mugs of coffee, a row of mismatched chairs dragged in from somewhere else.
Boxes marked “supplies” are stacked neatly against one wall, next to a duffel bag full of burner phones and a pile of nondescript jackets.
The air smells faintly of industrial cleaner and strong black tea.
It’s nothing like home. That’s exactly the point.
Arman wanted somewhere we could meet without being seen, close enough to Mila’s school that I could get there in minutes if anything happened.
The only decoration is a faded map of Los Angeles taped above the kitchen counter, red pins marking hospitals, courthouses, and a scattering of addresses I’d rather forget.
Arman sits at the head of the table, running his thumb along his beard as he listens.
Rifat leans in the doorway, sleeves rolled, ever-watchful.
Katya is perched on the arm of the sofa, tapping something into her phone, and Dima is half-buried behind a laptop, the screen throwing code-shaped shadows across his face.
I shift in my chair, glancing once at the door to be sure it’s locked before I speak. “Something happened at the ice cream shop yesterday,” I say, my voice quiet but unwavering. “It wasn’t random. Two men came after us—after Mila. Konstantin and I took care of them but…” I trail off.
Rifat’s jaw tightens. Katya sets her phone aside, her attention now fixed on me. Dima stops typing, the keys falling silent.
Arman leans forward, elbows on the table. “Details, Nadya. What stood out?”
I think back to the chaos, to Konstantin pinning the man to the ground. “There was a tattoo on one of their arms. I didn’t get a good look, but Konstantin described it. He said it was a serpent wrapped around a dagger.”
Arman rubs at his beard, eyes narrowed in thought. “A serpent and dagger…you’re sure?”
“As sure as anyone can be in a fight,” I reply, meeting his gaze. “But it stood out. Not the usual Bratva symbols. If you know something—”
He cuts me off with a shake of his head. “I have my suspicions, but that’s not enough to go on. Not yet.”
Rifat clears his throat, looking uneasy. “If they’re bold enough to come after you and your family in broad daylight, we’re out of time.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking. We don’t have time to wait,” I say, resolve cutting through my exhaustion. “We need to act now—not just to get Nikolai back, but to take down Alexei for good. If we stall, we’re just giving them more opportunities.”
Rifat gives me a look that’s equal parts concern and admiration. “Does your husband know you’re making these moves?”
I let out a breath, feeling the old ache between loyalty and necessity. “He knows what happened, but not what comes next. This isn’t his plan. It’s ours.”
Before I can say more, Arman cuts in, his tone final. “We move on our timeline. Whatever that tattoo means, whoever they belong to, we’ll find out soon enough.”
“So what is the plan, exactly?” I ask, letting my eyes travel over the faces gathered around the battered table. “Katya, did you get any info on Nikolai from your hospital contacts?”
Katya shakes her head, frustration clear in her voice. “Not yet. I pushed as far as I could without drawing attention, but there’s nothing unusual in the last week—no kids matching Nikolai’s age or description brought in under false names. I’ll keep pressing.”
Dima glances up from his laptop, his fingers never quite still. “I’ve been combing through foster placement records and temporary shelters, looking for any sign of a transfer or a child brought in without proper paperwork. Either they’re hiding him very well, or he’s not in the system.”
Rifat chimes in, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve got a friend keeping an eye on transport hubs—bus stations, cheap motels, anywhere someone could stash a kid for a few days. No hits yet, but he’ll call the second anything moves.”
I let out a slow breath, my mind racing through the possibilities, the walls seeming closer than before. “So, we have nothing. We’re still in the dark.”
Arman’s voice is firm, cutting through the doubt. “We have something—they’re getting bolder. The attack at the ice cream shop means they want to draw us out. Maybe they think we’ll make a mistake, or maybe they want to split our attention.”
Katya nods. “They’re using pressure. The more desperate we get, the more likely we are to move rashly.”
I glance between them, feeling the edges of frustration building under my skin. “I thought we were going against them head on,” I say. “That’s what we do, isn’t it?”
“That was before you mentioned the serpent tattoo,” Arman says. “That changes everything.”
I frown, crossing my arms. “What do you mean?”
Arman stands, pacing once around the cluttered table. “We still pressure Alexei, but we do it the smart way. I want you to do something else first. I want you to talk to the wives.”
“Excuse me?” The words leave my mouth before I can hold them back.
“You heard me,” he says, meeting my eyes without flinching.
I let out a breath, frustration tightening in my chest.
“You’ll get further in an afternoon of tea and gossip than any of us could in a week of threats.”
I stare at him, incredulous. “You want me to waste time with the Bratva wives? I can crack safes, jump across buildings without so much as tripping, plant a bug in a moving car, pick locks faster than most men can blink—but you want me to sit in a living room and trade stories about handbags and summer holidays?”
Arman’s tone is even, almost patient. “Men in our world have a blind spot,” he says. “They underestimate women. They talk freely in front of them—deals, threats, secrets—because in their minds a wife is background noise, not a witness. Those women hear things they’re never supposed to hear.”
I keep my arms crossed. “So you want me to play invisible, hope they let something slip?”
“I want you to be exactly who you are,” he replies. “Smart, observant, someone who knows what matters. Sit with them, listen. They’ll tell you where the bodies are buried, because no one ever taught them not to.”
I draw a breath, letting the edge of my frustration blunt just enough to see the angle. “Fine,” I say, though the word tastes like iron. “I’ll pour tea and smile until my cheeks ache. But the moment I have a lead, I’m back in the field.”
Arman smiles—a flash of pride, quickly hidden. “That’s all I’m asking.”
Later that evening, I wait until the apartment has settled, the city’s noise outside blending into a low, distant hum. I find Konstantin in the living room, half reading a newspaper, one eye on the hallway in case Mila wanders out.
“I want to throw a party,” I say casually, pretending to busy myself with a stack of mail.
He lowers the paper, brow furrowing. “A party? Now?” His voice is cautious. Not unkind, but skeptical, the questions stretching between us like a wire.
I shrug, keeping my tone light. “A birthday party for Mila. Even though Nikolai isn’t—” My voice catches, but I push forward. “She’s still turning six next week. And it might be good for us too. We could use a little normal, don’t you think?”
Konstantin studies me, a crease forming between his brows. He’s not convinced, but he’s too tired to argue. “If you think it’s a good idea.”
I nod, forcing a smile, but I can feel his suspicion—he’s seen too much of the world to believe I want streamers and cake just for the fun of it.
At that moment, the door clicks open and Maksim steps in, arms loaded with grocery bags. He stops just inside, scanning the room before he sets everything down on the kitchen counter. His gaze lands on me and lingers a beat too long.
“A party?” Maksim says, voice careful but edged with doubt.
He’s polite, always maintaining the formal distance expected of Konstantin’s men, but there’s something pointed in his look.
“It’s been a while since we’ve had one of those.
” He glances at Konstantin for direction, as if weighing whether he should question me further.
I smile, the kind reserved for strangers who ask too many questions. “Just something small, Maksim. Now that Mila’s going to school again. It feels like the right time.”
He nods, clearly not convinced, but defers to Konstantin’s silence. “If you need anything, just let me know.”
Maksim gives a half-nod toward Konstantin, then turns to leave. I follow him out, closing the door behind us. The hallway is dim and quiet, the hum of city traffic barely audible through the old glass.
“Maksim,” I say, and he stops mid-step. “Actually…I might need help with the guest list.”
He turns, brow arching slightly. “What kind of guest list are we talking about?”
For a beat, I don’t answer. My mind flashes—Lev, standing just where Maksim is now, smirking as he read my mind before I even opened my mouth. He would’ve made a joke about canapé trays or seating charts, but he would’ve known. He always knew.
But Lev’s gone, and I’m standing here alone with a plan half formed and the weight of it pressing on my spine.
“I need allies,” I say simply. “Women who’ll have my back if things turn…political.”
Maksim’s expression doesn’t change, but I catch the flicker of understanding behind his eyes. He leans one shoulder against the wall, hands still in his coat pockets. “Anyone in particular?”
“I trust your judgment,” I say.
He gives me a long look, one I can’t quite read. He folds his arms. “You want women with access. Bratva-adjacent, but not in the spotlight.”
“Yes.” I nod.
He’s quiet for a moment. Then, slowly, he nods. “Alright. I know a few names. They’ll take some convincing—but I’ll get them there.”
“Thank you,” I say, and mean it.
He steps back, already pulling out his phone. “Don’t thank me yet. Some of these women have claws sharper than yours.”
I smile faintly. “Good. I’m tired of being the only one drawing blood.”