Chapter 13 Nadya #2
But something holds me back. Maybe it’s the memory of Anya’s hand on his arm.
Maybe it’s the secrets he still carries, the way he lied about where he was, about who he was with.
Maybe I just need to keep this small piece of knowledge for myself, a way to stay ahead, or just to keep him safe—at least until I’m sure what he’ll do with it.
I press a slow kiss to his jaw and shake my head. “Not yet. He’s still looking into it.”
He studies me for a second, searching for something, but I keep my face calm, my voice steady. After a moment he just nods, fingers brushing my hip.
“Let me know if you hear anything,” he says quietly, before pulling me close again, his breath warm at my temple.
I rest my head on his chest, eyes closing, heart pounding with the secret I’m keeping—one more lie added to all the others, woven in with the warmth and the sweat and the way his body still feels like home.
Even as I lie there with his arms around me, my mind won’t quiet. What Kira said at the brunch keeps circling back—In our world it’s normal when our husbands cheat, as long as they’re discreet. The way she looked at me when she said it. The way I saw Anya’s hand on his, and he didn’t pull away.
I hadn’t planned it when I slipped into the lingerie, hadn’t thought it through past the ache in my chest and the knot of doubt in my stomach. But a part of me needed to see. To feel that I still have him, that whatever he’s hiding from me hasn’t changed what we are behind closed doors.
So I kissed him first. I let my hands roam, let my body do the asking, even as my heart held back. I needed to know if he still wants me like that—if he still belongs to me in ways that matter.
And when he moaned my name, when he gripped my hips like he couldn’t bear to let go, it felt like a small win. A selfish one maybe. But in this world, with everything spinning out of control, I’ll take what I can.
The next morning, I’m at the apartment Arman secured, gathered with the team.
The space is quiet except for the low hum of conversation and the clink of coffee cups.
The curtains are half-drawn, letting in the sunlight as Dima sits cross-legged on the floor, laptop open, the key Konstantin found held between two fingers.
He squints at it again. “Still working on it,” he says, not looking up. “But based on the material, cut, and etching—it’s probably from a private suite. High-end. Not the kind of thing you find at a motel.”
I take a breath and sip my coffee, letting the warmth anchor me. “Actually,” I say, setting the cup down, “I think I know where it’s from.”
Dima glances up. So does Rifat. Katya straightens in her chair.
“Yesterday,” I begin, “at the brunch with the Bratva wives, a few of them mentioned this place. Varna Quay Suites. It’s a private waterfront club—very exclusive. They don’t go there themselves, but their husbands do. It’s where deals get made.”
Dima gapes. “They said that name? Varna Quay?”
Rifat whistles under his breath. “Sounds like the kind of place people go when they want to disappear.”
Katya nods. “If that key belongs to one of those suites…”
“Then we have something,” I say.
Dima’s already typing. “I’ll see what I can find. If bookings exist under shell names or fake IDs, it’ll take time—but if any name connects back to Alexei, or his people…”
Katya glances at me. “What about Konstantin? Does he know about this?”
I hesitate for a second too long.
Dima catches it. “He doesn’t.”
“He’s…dealing with other things right now,” I say. “Besides, I’m not going to bring him half a theory based on brunch gossip.”
“Not gossip,” Katya says pointedly. “You’re just using their bad taste in men against them.”
“Exactly.” I smile, but it doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “Let’s keep this between us until we’re sure. I want to know who’s been using that suite.”
Rifat whistles low. “Private suites like that don’t just hold poker chips and mistresses. We’re talking documents, weapons logs, blackmail material.”
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “Maybe he meant to steal it,” I say. “Maybe he planned to. If he was about to double-cross someone, maybe this was his next move.”
We gather around the apartment’s narrow dining table, maps, tablets, and old blueprints laid out in front of us.
The apartment smells faintly of instant coffee and cheap floor polish.
Arman’s men have already secured the place with extra locks and motion sensors.
It isn’t meant to feel like home. Just a base.
“It doesn’t matter how the key got there,” I say, “only that it leads somewhere. And that somewhere might be important.”
“Varna Quay is discreet,” Katya says, pulling her laptop forward. “No security cams in the halls. Guests pay double for privacy. Perfect place to store…whatever they don’t want on record.”
Dima tilts his screen toward us. “Here. There’s a maintenance corridor that runs behind the west wing of the suites.
There’s also a private service elevator connected to the underground lot.
Some of the older staff still use key cards.
If we replicate this one, we might get access during a changeover window. ”
“How did you even get that?” I ask, looking over his shoulder.
Dima just shrugs.
“What’s the changeover window?” I ask.
“Ten to fifteen minutes. Maybe less if someone lingers.”
“Can you spoof the logs?” Arman asks.
Dima gives a tight smile. “Already working on it.”
“What about the exterior? Fire escapes, alternate exits?” I ask.
“Two side stairwells. One leads to the alley, the other connects to a closed-off rooftop lounge. I’ll scope both,” Dima says.
I run a hand through my hair. “Okay. We time this right, we get in and out without being noticed.”
“And if it’s empty?” Arman asks.
“Then we find out why it was important enough to need that level of access.”
He studies me for a moment. “And if it’s not?”
I hold his gaze. “Then we adapt.”
Katya closes her laptop with a quiet click. “We should go in light. One or two of us max. Less risk of tripping alarms.”
“I’ll go,” I say.
“I’m not letting you go alone,” Arman says.
“I wasn’t asking,” I say quietly, then sigh. “You know I can do this, Uncle. I’m ready for this.”
“When was the last time you did parkour?”
“Two months ago,” I say. “But it’s basically instinct now.’
He sighs.
“But fine,” I say, reluctantly. “One more. Rifat?”
He gives a nod. “Got your back.”
“Good. Dima, monitor the feeds. Katya, stay mobile in case we need alternate routing.”
Arman exhales, but he doesn’t object again.
I glance at the key card one more time.
Whatever’s in that suite, we’ll find it.
I crouch on the roof of the parking garage opposite Varna Quay, wind tugging at my jacket. Below, the bay glitters black and silver; ahead, the tower rises in mute glass and marble. No street cameras can see the west facade—Dima confirmed it twice—so the climb starts here.
“Elevator logs spoofed,” Dima’s voice murmurs in my ear. “You have a fifteen-minute blind zone. Go.”
I sprint, shoes silent on concrete, and leap the two-meter gap between garage parapet and the hotel’s maintenance balcony. Fingers find the metal rail; I swing, land, roll. Rifat lands a heartbeat later.
“You’re good,” he says.
A narrow fire ladder snakes down three floors. I grab a rung, glide down fast, then drop the last twelve feet, knees bending to take the shock. My boots hit a decorative ledge, half a meter wide, thirty meters long.
Below me, there’s glass. Above me, only a thin slice of moon. I breathe once, then sprint the ledge—one foot in front of the other—until I reach an unlit housekeeping terrace. A sideways vault clears the rail; I tuck, roll, and pop up in a crouch.
Rifat follows, muttering a soft prayer in Georgian. “Next time,” he huffs, “we take the elevator.”
I grin. “Too slow.”
Inside, a service door waits. I jack a twin-lead into the alarm panel; Dima kills the circuit. One beep, then green.
“Door’s yours,” he says.
We slip into a narrow corridor smelling of polish and bleach. Halfway down, a key card reader blinks. I swipe the cloned card—gift from Dima—and the rear entrance to Suite 804 unlocks with a soft click.
We move.
Living area—empty, lights low, curtains drawn. Luxe furniture, untouched glasses on a tray. I cross the room in four silent steps, hop the couch, and slide into the kitchen alcove. Rifat clears the hallway toward the bedroom.
I vault the counter, land light, and check a hidden power strip under the island. Plug in Dima’s repeater—tiny LED pulses once. “Repeater live.”
“Signal good,” Dima confirms.
Hallway now. I plant one palm on the floor, swing around the corner, and slide up to the bedroom door.
The room smells of expensive perfume and fresh linen. A half-packed weekender sits open on the bench; silk scarf, lipstick, burner phone still charging. Closet stands ajar, empty hangers sway as if yanked moments ago.
I kneel by the nightstand, run my fingers under the drawer lip, and pop a hidden latch. A slim leather notebook rests inside. I flip to the marked page:
Vsyo gotovo dlya sleduyushchego etapa.
Everything ready for the next stage.
My stomach dips.
“Two heat signatures just exited the eighth-floor elevator,” Dima’s voice cuts in, urgent. “Heading your way.”
No time.
The bedroom door swings inward before Rifat can reach it. A woman steps in, silver hair pinned high, designer coat draped over slim shoulders. I know that regal profile, the set of her jaw: Ludmila Buryakova—Alexei’s mother.
For a split second she freezes, and I see it all in her face—fear, guilt, the recognition that whatever power she once held doesn’t mean a thing now.
“You,” I spit, the word like broken glass. I lunge before I even think. My hand tangles in her hair, jerking her head back as I drag her out into the main room. She screams, shrill and desperate.
“What the hell is going on?” Dima hisses in my ear.
“Nadya, no!” Rifat snaps, but I barely hear him.