Chapter 11 Nadya
NADYA
My phone buzzes while I’m standing at the window, sunlight slipping across the floor in slow golden bands.
I glance down, half expecting nothing of importance, and see Kira’s name lighting up the screen.
She’s sent a short, neatly worded message, the kind that manages to feel both casual and formal at once.
Brunch tomorrow? The girls are meeting at Rose’s Bistro, by the bay. Tatiana said to invite you. Noon. Wear something bright. XO—Kira
I read it twice, just to make sure I’m not imagining things.
My first instinct is suspicion—these women don’t invite outsiders, not unless they want something, not unless the circle has shifted enough to let in someone new.
Still, there’s something honest in Kira’s words, a gentle insistence that feels less like a trap and more like a test. Or maybe, just maybe, an opening.
I stare at the message, thumb hovering above the screen.
I set the phone down, the glow of the screen pooling across the counter, and I let myself feel it for just a second—a flutter of nerves, a thrill of victory, a prickling at the back of my neck that says nothing in this world comes free.
I glance at my closet, the rack of carefully curated dresses, none of them feeling quite right for an audience like this. Brunch by the bay. With the Bratva wives. I wonder what they want—and more urgently, what I might be able to get from them in return.
Tomorrow, I’ll find out.
I dial Rifat’s number as I stand in front of the closet, phone balanced between shoulder and ear, one hand sifting through a row of dresses that all suddenly look wrong. He answers on the second ring, voice gruff but awake.
“Rifat? I need a favor,” I say, eyeing a pale blue dress I’ve never worn outside a wedding. “Can you keep an eye on Mila for me this afternoon? Just at school, nothing complicated. I have…an appointment.”
There’s a pause, then his familiar sigh. “You got it. You want updates every hour, or just if something happens?”
“Just call if anything’s off,” I say, tugging the dress from its hanger.
“Understood,” he replies. “Go do what you need to do. I’ll be around.”
“Thank you, Rifat. I mean it.”
I hang up, laying the dress on the bed. The invitation still glows on my phone. For a moment, I study my reflection, pinning back my hair and wondering who exactly they expect to show up at the bay—Konstantin’s wife, the grieving mother, or something else entirely.
I keep my phone in my palm during the short ride, checking the screen every few minutes even though I know Rifat will call if anything shifts at the school.
The city passes outside the window, sunlight glinting off storefront glass and the slow sweep of traffic lights, until the skyline gives way to bright water and the long curve of the marina.
Rose’s Bistro sits at the edge of the pier, its white facade gleaming, tall windows thrown open to the breeze coming in from the bay, the smell of salt and grilled seafood carried up the promenade.
I step out and smooth the skirt of the blue dress, feeling the afternoon heat settle on my shoulders.
Inside, the hostess offers a quick smile when I give my name, then guides me through a maze of small marble tables packed with people in bright summer clothes.
The chatter in the room is high and constant, silver cutlery clinking on ceramic, servers weaving through with trays of champagne and oysters.
Half the restaurant faces the water, the glass folding walls pushed aside so the breeze can slip across the diners, teasing linen napkins and loose hair.
The wives have taken over a long table near the railing, overlooking the harbor where sailboats drift lazily in neat lines.
Kira spots me first, eyes bright, waving me over with a genuine warmth that cuts some of my tension.
Tatiana sits at the head of the table, pale-lilac silk draped over her shoulders despite the temperature, oversized sunglasses perched on perfectly styled hair.
She lifts her chin in acknowledgment, nothing more.
Lena nods politely, Dasha offers a quick grin, and there are two new faces I don’t recognize, both with subtle designer logos and the easy poise of people who have never needed to worry about security gates.
“Look who finally decided to join us,” Tatiana says, her voice pleasant enough to pass inspection, though I hear the challenge underneath. “We were beginning to think Mila’s party exhausted you.”
“Not at all,” I answer, sliding into the seat Kira saved beside her, the ocean view stretching clean and blue behind us. “It was only the warm-up.”
Wine arrives, pale gold in thin glasses, and a server follows with a tiered platter of pastries that look almost too delicate to eat.
Small talk begins, predictable and flowing—travel plans for summer, a designer trunk show in Beverly Hills, who has a new chef at home and whether he can handle more than soufflé.
I listen, nodding where appropriate, letting the rhythm of their banter settle me into the circle.
Every ten minutes Kira nudges me with a quiet aside, steering conversation when Tatiana drifts toward dismissive commentary about west-side real estate or the children of people who are not present.
Kira leans in. “Mila’s party was incredible, my daughter can’t stop talking about it.”
Tatiana’s smile tightens, just a fraction. “Children make friends easily. Adults, not always.”
I sip my water, let the silence hover, then change the subject. “This place is beautiful. Did you reserve the whole bay window?”
“Rose keeps it for us,” Kira says. “Perks of being loyal customers.” She lifts a menu. “The crab Benedict is perfection. You must try it.”
A text buzzes in my bag. I check it under the table.
Rifat. All clear at school. Mila happy. Will update after lunch.
I slip the phone away and glance at the wives’ reflections in the glass.
Behind them, a sailboat skims across the bright water.
In front of me, the women wait to see if I will reveal teeth or weakness.
I choose neither.
The waiter sets a porcelain teapot in the center of the table, steam curling upward. Around us, the dining room hums with polite laughter and the soft rattle of utensils, but the conversation at our table spirals nowhere meaningful. It is designed that way.
Tatiana flips through the brunch menu as if each page holds a secret code. “I still do not understand why restaurants insist on truffle in every dish,” she says, lips pursed in mild distaste. “Food should not overpower the wine.”
Kira nods enthusiastically. “True, but Rose’s sommelier never fails. Last season’s rosé pairing was divine.”
Lena reaches for her flute. “I could drink rosé all year if they let me. It makes winter feel less dreary.”
Dasha, tracing a fingertip over the rim of her glass, smiles at me. “What is your guilty pleasure, Nadya? Red velvet cupcakes? Champagne at breakfast?”
I keep my tone sweet, resting my hand lightly on the linen. “Three shots of espresso before sunrise. Mila says it makes me faster.”
Tatiana tilts her head. “Faster at what?” Her tone is airy, but the challenge is clear.
“Everything,” I answer, meeting her eyes. “Mornings are a race.”
Kira laughs, filling the pause with a sparkle of teeth. “You must teach me your secret. My trainer insists on green juice, but green juice gives me hives.”
“Green juice gives everyone hives,” Lena says. “Nobody drinks it unless someone is paying them to smile.”
Tatiana stirs her mimosa with measured care, gold ring tapping the glass. “I find discipline solves the problem. A short fast, a long run, and you forget cravings altogether.”
I nod as if interested. “I was a runner in school. Ten kilometers before first bell.”
She marks the information. “And after you met Konstantin?”
“Five kilometers,” I reply. “And only on days ending in Y.”
Kira giggles. Dasha grins. Even Tatiana manages a curve of her mouth, though her eyes never warm. She moves on, dainty fork poised above a pastry. “Tell me, Nadya, which designers are you wearing this season?”
Her gaze drops to my dress, soft blue with a modest neckline. It is expensive, but not flashy, tailored to suggest gentility rather than ambition.
“I’ve been living in Los Angeles long enough to love linen,” I say. “Easy, breezy, and nothing the dry cleaner can hold hostage.”
Tatiana considers, clearly displeased by the lack of brand names. She taps her fork on her plate. “Yet linen wrinkles. A woman should never look rumpled.”
“Wrinkles prove I’m real,” I answer, sipping my tea. “And anyway, they fall out quickly in this heat.”
Kira leans forward, eager to redirect the mood. “Speaking of heat, we’re planning an escape to Tulum next month. You should come. The water is crystal.”
Lena lights up. “Yes. The resort has yoga at sunrise on the pier. Imagine the photos.”
Tatiana lifts one manicured brow at me. “Do you practice yoga, Nadya?”
“Only when I forget my espresso,” I say, earning a laugh from Dasha.
Tatiana’s smile returns, thin as rice paper. “I suppose it is difficult to keep a strict regimen with children. Mila is how old now?”
“Six,” I say.
“And the boy?” she asks, spoon poised, innocent tone carving a sudden hollow in my chest.
Kira inhales, sensing the shift. Lena glances at her lap. Only Dasha remains oblivious.
I hold Tatiana’s gaze. “They’re twins.”
Tatiana sets her mimosa down with a soft click, tilts her head as if studying a rare insect, and lets a small tutting sound slip between her teeth. “It must be so hard for Mila,” she says, voice honeyed but heavy with feigned sympathy, “to lose her twin like that.”