Chapter 15 Nadya
NADYA
I watch Konstantin walk out of the apartment, the door closing with that quiet finality he’s perfected lately.
My heart thumps in my chest, not just from our argument or the way his hands caged me against the wall, but from what I managed while he was close.
While he pressed me there, demanding answers, I slipped an AirTag into the inside pocket of his jacket. I pray he doesn’t find it.
I need to know where he goes, need to know he’s safe, even if I have to go behind his back to do it.
I linger in the hallway a moment, letting the air settle, then turn and realize my father is standing by the kitchen, mug in hand, watching me.
“What was that about?” he asks quietly.
I bristle, covering my nerves with attitude. “What?”
He tilts his head, face unreadable. “You and your husband. I saw the way he looked at you. That wasn’t nothing.”
“It’s nothing,” I say, a little too quick, grabbing a glass just for something to do with my hands.
“And Arman?” he says, not letting it drop. “He’s in town.”
I freeze, fingers tightening on the glass. I don’t answer. I don’t have to.
He sets his mug down with a quiet clink. “In fact, the guy who pulled you out of that mess last night—he’s Arman’s man, isn’t he?”
“Dad, please. Just…stay out of it.”
He sighs, the sound heavy, almost tired. “Nadya. You can’t trust Arman. Not now. Not ever. You know what he’s capable of.”
I glare at him, the sting of old betrayal prickling in my chest. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
He holds my gaze a moment longer, then looks away. “I’m still your father, Nadya. I want you safe.”
I want to laugh, or cry, or both, but I don’t let him see either. Instead, I turn to the window, watching the city swallow Konstantin’s shape as he disappears into the morning. The AirTag’s icon appears on my phone screen—one small assurance in a world of shifting shadows.
I meet his gaze, stubborn, but there’s an ache behind my ribs I can’t shake. “You think I trust anyone at this point?”
He doesn’t reply. For a moment, it’s just the hum of the city outside, the faint echo of Mila’s laughter in the next room. For all his warnings, for all the secrets hanging between us, he’s here. For now.
My fingers tighten around my phone, thumb hovering over the tracking app as I watch Konstantin’s dot move farther from home. The apartment feels cold, Pyotr’s presence heavy as winter air, but I refuse to let him see how shaken I am.
He stands and steps closer, searching my face for something I won’t give him. “You think I’m just trying to control you?” he asks quietly.
I force a small, brittle smile. “No. I think you’re trying to protect me in your own way. But you don’t know this world anymore, Dad. Not really. You left.”
He doesn’t flinch. “I left because I had to. Doesn’t mean I forgot how these men work. Arman was dangerous before you were born. He’s more dangerous now. You let him in, he’ll use you. That’s what he does.”
His certainty grates at me, partly because it sounds too much like Konstantin, absolute, unyielding. “You don’t know what I owe him,” I say softly, voice barely above a whisper.
He tilts his head. “I know what you owe Mila. And Nikolai. And yourself. Be careful who you trust, Nadya. Just because you think you’re in control doesn’t mean you are.”
He starts to say something else, but I turn away and gather the coffee cups from the table. I don’t want his advice, not now. Not when every secret feels like another crack in the floor beneath my feet.
I reach the warehouse just after noon. The old freight yard looms at the edge of the docks, red brick streaked with decades of salt and soot.
Inside, the air smells of motor oil and the faint tang of seaweed carried in on every gust through the cracked skylights.
Rifat posted two men at the bay doors; they nod me through without a word.
The main floor is gutted, only a ring of portable work lights throwing long beams across the concrete. Dima’s cables snake to a generator humming in the corner.
An unmarked roll-up door whines open as I pull in, headlights sweeping across scuffed walls and oil-stained floors. Inside, a single string of work lamps throws pale light over crates, tarped machinery, and a folding table that serves as command center.
Katya rises from a metal chair near the back.
Her white coat is smudged with dust, stethoscope draped around her neck.
On the other side of the lamp, Ludmila slumps against a steel support, wrists zip-tied to the chair arms, ankles bound to the legs.
A mild sedative keeps her docile; her head lolls, hair sticking to her tear-streaked cheeks.
Rifat leans against a pallet stack, rifle cradled, Dima perched on a crate beside him with an open laptop, security feeds flickering on the screen. They give me a nod as I approach.
Ludmila stirs, blinking at the sound of my boots on concrete. “Please,” she whispers, voice raspy. “Help me.”
I walk right up to her. “Why the fuck should I help you? You destroyed my family.”
I look Ludmila straight in the eyes, letting the words cut through the haze of drugs and fear.
“I know you hated your husband. I know what it’s like, how it must have twisted you up, watching your own son grow, knowing he wasn’t really Dmitry’s. Living with that fear, day after day, wondering when the truth would finally catch up and destroy everything you’d built.”
She tries to turn away, but I keep her gaze locked.
“That’s why you hated Konstantin, isn’t it?
Because he was the proof. Because no matter how hard he tried, no matter how loyal he was, he could never be enough for Dmitry.
He carried Dmitry’s blood, and still he was always on the outside, always the outcast—always what you could be, if you ever lost that fragile grace your husband gave you. ”
Ludmila’s face crumples, the fight going out of her in slow waves. Tears streak down her cheeks, but I don’t feel pity.
“The irony is, for all your secrets, for all your hate—Konstantin is the one who still has that blood. The one you wanted out of your sight. And Alexei…”
I pause, letting her sit with the truth. “Alexei was never Dmitry’s son. But you built your world around that lie, and now you’re going to watch it burn unless you tell me where Nikolai is.”
She’s shaking now, breath coming fast. I lean in, voice like steel. “You want to walk out of here, Ludmila, you tell me everything. Or you can sit here and remember what it feels like to be powerless, just like he always was in your house.”
“That was brutal,” Rifat mutters behind me as I straighten, stepping back from Ludmila’s chair. My pulse is pounding in my ears. The air in the warehouse feels thick, too heavy to breathe.
Ludmila is crying now, lips trembling. “I don’t know where Nikolai is, I swear,” she stammers, her voice breaking.
“He was at the Varna Quay Suites with me until last week. They…they moved him. I don’t know where.
I was just supposed to watch him, to keep him calm.
But someone else came for him, I didn’t see who, I just know he’s not there anymore. ”
The words hit like a blow to the chest. My heart stutters, dread unfurling in my gut. Nikolai was here. He was this close. I missed him, barely by a hair. Shit.
I turn away, clenching my fists. The truth burns like acid in my throat. So close. I want to scream, to rip the world apart until I find him, but I force myself still. There’s no time for grief, not when every second he’s further away.
I force my voice to stay steady. “Who moved him, Ludmila? Who gave the order?”
She shakes her head desperately. “I don’t know, Nadya, please. They don’t tell me anything. They just send messages. I’m nothing. Just a mother. Just a tool.”
My jaw tightens. “Then you’re going to remember something, or you’re going to be useless to everyone, including Alexei.”
I close my eyes, fighting the urge to break down. So close.
“Shit,” I whisper. “We almost had him.”
Arman steps forward, rolling his sleeves to the elbows like he’s preparing for heavy work. The industrial lamp throws a hard line of light across his face, making his scowl look deeper, older.
Ludmila watches him approach, and in that moment, I see something odd flicker in her eyes. Recognition. She draws back against her bonds, lips parting. “You…” The word barely makes it out, hoarse and trembling.
Arman doesn’t acknowledge her at all. No flicker of surprise, no change in his voice or posture. He simply reaches for her jaw, tilts her face up, and says, “Look at me.”
She does, barely.
I frown. She should not know my uncle. He stayed in Europe for years, keeping to his own shadows.
Yet every time he leans in, she shrinks like she recognizes his scent.
It pricks at me. Pyotr warned me. You can’t trust Arman.
I thought my father too paranoid, but the way Ludmila’s eyes track Arman makes my stomach knot.
“Start again,” he tells Ludmila, his voice cold. “From the night Nikolai arrived.”
She flinches even before he touches her. Whatever softness she might have hoped for is gone. Arman tilts her chin with two fingers, thumb pressing against the bruise under her eye. Not hard enough to mark deeper, just enough to remind her that he can.
“I told you,” she whispers. “I don’t know anything. Alexei kept me out of it.”
“You must have heard a voice. An accent. You smelled the cologne on the man’s coat. Think harder.” He lets her go and paces behind the chair. “You don’t want to lie to me, Ludmila. Not tonight.”
Ludmila sobs, shaking her head, repeating the same denials.
He draws the blade slowly along her collarbone, not breaking the skin, just a warning. She jerks back, but there’s nowhere to go. Rifat steps closer, arms folded, his presence making the air in the warehouse heavier.
Arman’s voice is a low threat. “Names, Ludmila. Tell me or you bleed.”
She whimpers, biting her lip, shaking her head.