Chapter 17
NADYA
Boxes scrape over the worn hardwood as I slide them against the far wall.
The safe house feels like a half-finished thought—bare mattress in one corner, a couch that has seen better decades, and a kitchen little more than a sink and a hot plate.
Still, it’s ours for tonight, and that has to be enough.
Pyotr rubs the bruise on his ribs and winces. “Your husband is going to kill me for helping you run.”
“He has other things to worry about,” I say, folding Mila’s small sweaters into the single dresser drawer. My hands keep moving, because if they stop, I might think too long about Konstantin standing alone in that hallway, eyes full of something I can’t face.
Pyotr watches me for a moment, then clears his throat. “And what about the fact that you and your husband were supposed to present a united front? You were the future king and queen of the Bratva, weren’t you?”
I smooth the last sweater flat, but my throat tightens. “So they keep telling us.”
He sits on the edge of the couch, fingers laced. “United fronts aren’t built on secrets, Nadya. Not the ones you hide from him, or the ones he hides from you.”
I shut the drawer quietly. Mila hums to herself from the corner, coloring in a battered notebook we found in the kitchen drawer. She’s safe, for now, and that has to be enough.
I turn to my father. “If we waited until every secret was aired, we’d never move at all. Nikolai doesn’t have that luxury.”
He looks at me like he wants to say more, but he nods. “What’s the next step?”
I glance at my phone—the tracker still pinned to Konstantin’s dot, far from here. “We keep our distance until I know where Nikolai is. Then I decide how much of the truth I can afford.”
Silence settles between us, heavy but honest. In the corner, Mila changes crayon colors, her tongue poking out in concentration. I walk over and kiss the top of her head, breathing in the scent of cheap wax and shampoo.
“What really happened?” Pyotr pushes. “You don’t love him anymore?”
On the contrary—I love him too much. That’s why I couldn’t stand to see him with that woman. I close my eyes and see the way he grabbed her, and my heart breaks once again.
“It doesn’t matter anymore, I’m a mother first. I need to put Nikolai first.”
“But it was supposed to be you and him against the world. That’s what you told me.”
I’m silent. I think about the last few months. How everything changed the moment I agreed to the auction, the moment he stepped into my life. Finally I speak, quiet but unmoving. “Plans change.”
He waits for more, but I have no more to give.
The silence thickens, filled with everything I can’t say—that the sight of Konstantin with another woman still claws at me, that I slipped an AirTag in his pocket like a thief because I no longer trust the space between us, that every hour my son stays missing feels like my heart is being sanded down to dust.
Pyotr’s shoulders sink. He opens his mouth—maybe to comfort, maybe to argue—but he closes it again, turning toward the hallway. “I’ll keep watch outside.”
I nod without looking up, folding the last of Mila’s clothes into the drawer. When the door clicks shut, I press both palms to the dresser and let my eyes close.
I remind myself why we’re here. Safety, distance, leverage. I remind myself that believing in Konstantin won’t bring Nikolai back, but believing in myself just might.
Still, the emptiness in my chest feels wider than any room, big enough to swallow every plan I’ve ever had for us.
I’m at the stove, stirring a pot of soup that smells a little like home and a little like desperation. Mila is singing quietly at the kitchen table, legs swinging, oblivious to the storm churning just beneath my skin.
My phone buzzes. For a moment, I just stare at it, thumb hesitating over the screen. I know it’s Konstantin. I feel it before I even see his name. My stomach twists as I swipe to answer.
“Where are you?” His voice is tight, low, frayed at the edges.
I keep my back to the window, voice flat. “None of your concern.”
He curses softly, “Nadya, don’t do this to me. Mila—”
“She’s fine.” I glance toward the living room, where colored pencils and paper are scattered like quiet little promises. “Don’t bother trying to track my number,” I add. “You won’t find us.”
“Nadya—”
I can’t hear the plea. I end the call, drop the phone to the tile, and bring my heel down hard. The screen cracks, splinters, goes dark.
A rustle at the doorway startles me. Rifat stands there, grocery bags in both arms, eyes wide. “Hey,” he says, stepping inside slowly. “Hope I’m not disturbing anything.”
I force a breath, schooling my face back to calm. “No. Dinner’s almost ready.”
He scans the shattered phone, then my face. He doesn’t ask. Instead, he sets the bags on the counter, starts unpacking vegetables. “Arman picked this apartment well,” he says, voice even. “Quiet street, decent locks.” A beat passes before he adds, “But I still don’t like Pyotr hanging around.”
“Noted,” I murmur, tasting sauce that suddenly seems too salty.
Rifat arranges tomatoes in a bowl, glancing toward the hallway where my father keeps watch. “Just say the word, I’ll find somewhere else for him.”
I shake my head. “One problem at a time.” I stir the pot harder than necessary, the sauce popping, hissing like it shares my anger.
“Arman’s not thrilled about your father being here either,” Rifat tries again. “Says it complicates things.”
I shrug, not looking at him. “Everything’s complicated.”
Rifat doesn’t argue, and for a few minutes, the only sounds are the hiss of the stove and Mila’s hums.
Dinner is quiet, the kind of quiet where every clink of a spoon sounds too loud.
Rifat sits across from my father, shoulders stiff, eyes fixed on his soup as if it might offer instructions.
Pyotr watches him without bothering to hide it, a faint frown cutting a line between his brows.
He’s polite enough not to say anything, but the air feels dense around him.
Mila kicks her heels against the chair legs, humming under her breath. She glances between the adults, sensing the tension she can’t name.
“So, uh, thanks for the food,” Rifat says quietly, mostly to his bowl.
Pyotr nods, noncommittal. “Eat while it’s warm.”
No one says anything else for a while. The scrape of silverware on plates fills the room.
Rifat tries again. “It’s a nice place. Cozy.”
Pyotr just grunts.
Mila yawns and drops her fork, mumbling that she’s full. Rifat looks like he wants to say something reassuring but thinks better of it.
The silence hangs on, awkward and heavy, all of us just pretending this is how things are supposed to be.
After getting Mila into her pajamas, I sit on the edge of her bed, smoothing her blanket over her small frame.
The night-light throws soft shapes across the walls—stars and moons that drift slowly, as if they’re trying to lull her into dreams. She clutches her stuffed rabbit to her chest, its ears worn from constant handling.
“Mommy?” Her voice is quiet, rough with sleep that hasn’t settled yet.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
She turns her face toward me, eyes glossy in the dim glow. “I miss Papa.” A shaky breath. “And I miss Nikolai. And Irina. Why does everyone keep leaving me?”
The words punch straight through the thin armor I’ve kept around my heart all day. I swallow hard, forcing my voice to stay calm.
I brush her hair back from her forehead, tucking a strand behind her ear. “I know you miss them,” I whisper. “I do too. More than anything.”
Her lower lip trembles. “Is it because I wasn’t good?” She says it so softly I almost can’t hear her.
“No, Mila.” I pull her into my arms, feeling her ribs beneath the cotton of her pajama top. “You are perfect. None of this is your fault. Papa loves you, Nikolai loves you, Irina loves you. Sometimes grown-ups have to fix big problems, and it can take a little while.”
“A little while feels forever,” she murmurs against my shoulder.
Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them back. “I know it does. But Papa will be with us soon.”
“Promise?” she asks, voice small.
I kiss the top of her head. “Promise.” My voice cracks on the word, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
She loosens her grip on the rabbit, nestling deeper under the blanket.
I keep my hand on her back, feeling each slow inhale, each soft exhale, until her breathing evens and the tension leaves her limbs.
Only when she’s asleep do I let the tears fall—silent, hot, disappearing into the darkness before they can touch her dreams.
I shut Mila’s door with a quiet click and let the hallway breathe out its silence.
The small townhouse smells like lavender soap and something simmering from dinner.
When I step into the living room, Pyotr is still planted in the armchair near the balcony, one ankle resting on his knee like he owns the place. Rifat is gone.
“I sent him packing,” my father says, not looking up from the notebook in his lap.
“He hates your guts,” I reply, crossing my arms.
Pyotr shrugs once. “I don’t care. Your husband is scarier.”
“I can arrange for Konstantin to visit,” I mutter, but my sarcasm lands flat. I’m too tired for this dance. “If you’re done antagonizing bodyguards, you can leave.”
“I will,” he says. “But there’s something you need to see first.”
He taps the notebook—my notebook—the one I keep jammed in my bag with half-drawn maps and scribbled leads. My pulse spikes. “You went through my things?”
“I wasn’t trying to snoop,” he says, flipping it open to a page of frantic sketches. “This symbol caught my eye.”
I take a step forward despite myself. There it is—the coiling serpent wrapped around a dagger, the same mark I glimpsed on the arms of the men who tried to grab us outside the ice-cream shop. My throat goes tight.
“You know what it is?” I ask, voice thinner than I want.
Pyotr nods slowly. “It’s an omen. An old myth among the northern brigades.”
“What myth?”
He leans back, fingers laced over his stomach, eyes distant as if he’s slipped years into the past. “They called it Kol’tso Zmei—the Ring Serpent. Legend says the serpent appears only when a blood debt is declared.”
“I don’t understand.”
His eyes darken, the lines around them deepening.
“It’s a Bratva crest, Nadya. It belongs to the Veles family—one of the oldest, most feared clans on this side of the world.
Their name alone sends chills through anyone who’s heard it.
Their influence spans generations, borders—continents.
They strike deals in whispers, and seal them in blood. ”
My throat feels suddenly dry. “You think they’re here? In LA?”
“No,” he says softly. “They wouldn’t need to be.
If you’ve seen their mark, it means they’ve put out a hit—against you, against Konstantin.
Buryakov is the strongest Bratva name in the city.
This war between your husband and Alexei…
it’s not just personal. It’s not just about Nikolai.
Alexei took the boy to weaken Konstantin’s hold, to show vulnerability. ”
“Do you think Alexei asked for their help?” I ask.
“If he did, he’s a fool,” Pyotr says. His voice lowers, rough and grave. “The Veles are masters at exploiting fractures. This serpent isn’t just a warning. It’s their declaration that your family is now a target.”
I stand frozen, heart racing, the notebook heavy in my hands. “Then we fight.”
He rises slowly, his face shadowed in the dim light. “If you do, understand this—the Veles don’t wage wars they aren’t certain they can win. And when they strike, it’s swift, brutal, and final.”
The quiet stretches between us, thick with unspoken fear. I look down at the serpent, knowing Pyotr is right. The Veles mark is more than ink—it’s a promise of blood.
And right now, we’re directly in its path.