Chapter 19
NADYA
The safe house feels smaller with every passing day.
I’m not allowed to leave, not with the risks stacking up outside the door, but even here—surrounded by neutral walls and bolted locks—there’s no real sense of safety.
Arman sits on the edge of the armchair, elbows on his knees, a half-drunk glass of water on the table beside him.
He hasn’t touched it in an hour. Katya’s in the kitchen, going through the medication logs.
Rifat’s duffel bag is half-zipped by the coat rack, forgotten, like so many things lately.
“We need to revisit Ludmila’s claim,” Arman mutters. “She says it wasn’t just Alexei—she claims someone else is feeding him intel from the Bratva. Someone close to Konstantin.”
“She’s playing a game,” I say, but even I don’t know if it’s to bait us or save herself. “You’ve secured her location?”
Arman nods. “Double-shifted. I trust them.”
I don’t. But I let it go. We don’t have the luxury of splintering now.
He exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Still think she doesn’t break under pressure?”
“I think she knows just enough to stay alive. And not a word more.” I look down at the table, at the old, chipped teacup I’ve been nursing all morning, and I catch movement in the hallway.
Tiny feet. Bare. Light tapping on the floor.
Then Mila’s voice, chirping out with innocent delight. “Mama! Look what I found!”
The words don’t register—until I look up and see her.
She’s standing near the hallway, smiling, both hands wrapped awkwardly around something long, heavy, and black.
A gun.
My body goes still. Cold crashes through my spine like ice water.
“Mila,” I whisper, forcing my voice calm even as everything inside me screams. “Where did you get that?”
She lifts it higher, struggling under the weight, wobbling slightly as she adjusts her grip. “It was under the big bag,” she says, pointing toward the coat rack. Rifat’s duffel. “I thought it was a toy.”
I rise slowly, pulse pounding against my ribs, hands out, gentle. “Sweetheart…you need to stay very, very still.”
Arman curses under his breath, frozen halfway between the chair and the floor. His eyes are locked on the safety—probably still on, but neither of us is willing to bet my daughter’s life on probably.
“It’s really heavy,” Mila says again, straining under the weight, her small fingers now dangerously close to the trigger guard.
I inch forward. “I believe you, baby. You’re doing so well. Just put it down on the floor for me. Slowly.”
“I didn’t mean to be bad.”
“You’re not bad, Mila,” I say, my voice shaking now despite every effort to keep it even. “You’re perfect. Just lower it. Both hands. Nice and easy.”
Her face puckers with confusion, sensing something is wrong but not understanding the danger.
Still, she obeys. She crouches slowly, arms trembling, and places the gun on the carpeted floor like it’s something sacred.
I lunge the moment it leaves her hands, scooping her up, pulling her against me, burying my face in her hair as I hold her tight. My whole body’s shaking.
Katya runs in, sees the weapon, and gasps. Arman moves fast, grabbing the gun, flipping the safety and checking the chamber. “Loaded,” he mutters. “Fully.”
I stare at Rifat’s bag, hatred simmering in my chest like boiling oil.
“She could’ve died,” I whisper.
“She didn’t,” Arman replies, low, grim. “You got to her in time.”
“Not because of anything we did right,” I snap. “Because of luck. That’s it.”
Mila clings to me now, small hands tangled in my hair. “I’m sorry, Mama.”
“No, sweetheart. No, no. You didn’t do anything wrong,” I whisper fiercely. “That wasn’t your fault.”
But the truth gnaws at me. We’ve filled our lives with men like Rifat, weapons stuffed into duffels and forgotten under coats, danger tucked into corners like it belongs there.
I press a kiss to her temple and squeeze her tighter, swearing silently to whatever gods still listen—this will not happen again.
I will burn this world down before it touches my daughter again.
The door to the balcony creaks as I step out into the dusk.
The air smells like old concrete and city grime, and something metallic still clings to the back of my throat—fear, maybe.
My hands are gripping the railing so tightly my knuckles ache.
From this height, the city feels like a different country, one that doesn’t know me, that doesn’t care what happened just minutes ago inside these walls.
I try to breathe. I can’t.
Inside, Mila is safe.
But the image won’t leave me—the gun in her hands, the weight of it against her chest, her tiny fingers so close to disaster. My stomach turns over again, and I press a palm to it, grounding myself.
I hear the door open behind me, soft footsteps. Arman.
He doesn’t say anything right away. Just steps up beside me, not too close, the way someone does when they know you’re shaking and trying not to show it.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” I murmur, eyes still locked on the skyline.
He stands close, but not touching, the way you do when you aren’t sure if comfort will be accepted or flung back in your face.
He exhales, a frustrated sigh. “Pyotr must have left the gun in her reach. He’s always moving things around, thinks he’s being helpful. I did warn against his presence in the apartment.” His voice is tight, defensive, like he’s trying to convince both of us.
I turn, hands still white-knuckled on the rail. I can’t hide the tremor in my jaw, or the accusation in my eyes. “Do you have to blame him for everything, Arman?” I ask quietly, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “We both know it’s Rifat’s gun. His bag. His mess.”
He bristles, jaw twitching. “I’m just saying Pyotr—”
I cut him off. “No. I’m tired of excuses.” My voice comes out more brittle than I intend, but I let it stand. “We are surrounded by guns and men who think they’re invincible. Mila isn’t.”
He looks away, rubbing his temples, the city’s neon painting tired lines across his face. “You’re right,” he mutters after a moment. “It shouldn’t have happened. I should’ve checked the bag myself.”
I want to tell him it’s not just one mistake, that it’s the sum of all of them, every gun left half-cocked in the hallway, every moment of carelessness justified by stress or exhaustion or the myth that we’re always in control.
I want to scream that I nearly lost everything in a single stupid moment.
But I don’t. I just stand there, letting the night settle around us, brittle and raw. “You can’t fix this by blaming someone else,” I say, my voice almost a whisper. “Just promise me we’ll never be this careless again.”
“Okay,” he says after a while.
The city below is alive, restless, and I watch the light spill and scatter in a hundred directions, none of them leading home. I’m still trying to piece myself back together when Arman clears his throat. I sense him working up to something, the set of his shoulders tense.
He speaks quietly, words meant only for me and the night.
“Your husband’s gone insane, you know that, don’t you?
” He tries to keep it casual, but the gravity seeps through.
“Word on the street is that he’s telling anyone who’ll listen that he took Ludmila himself.
That…does take the heat off us, at least for now. ”
I absorb this, watching the headlights stutter along the distant overpass, wondering just how much of it is true, how much is calculated, and how much is simply desperation.
“But that’s not all.” Arman lowers his voice further, glancing over his shoulder as if the walls themselves might be listening. “He also killed Alexei’s paramour. People are saying it was brutal, that he threw her off the bridge. No one’s found the body. Just…gone.”
For a moment I can’t breathe, the image of a faceless woman tumbling through darkness locking up my chest. Konstantin’s voice echoes in my mind, the cold finality of him when he decides something must be done. I grip the railing tighter, the cold metal biting into my palm.
“Impossible,” I whisper, half to myself, shaking my head as if I can undo the truth Arman’s handed me. The city seems to draw back from the balcony, the sounds below distant and muffled, like I’m underwater.
Arman doesn’t soften; he never does, not when it matters.
He leans in, the edge in his voice sharper than the night air.
“You married a monster, Nadya, and you’re surprised when he does monstrous things?
” He shakes his head, almost pitying. “How do you think he controls the city? With good intentions and kind words? Men like Konstantin, they keep order by making everyone afraid. That’s the only language anyone respects out there. ”
I look away, eyes stinging, not sure if it’s from the cold or his words.
I don’t want to answer, because part of me knows he’s right.
I saw the ruthlessness in Konstantin from the start—sometimes I even loved him for it, the way he could bend the world to his will.
But it’s different now. It’s different when the blood washes up closer to my door, when Mila’s hands come so close to disaster.
Arman lets out a slow, tired sigh, voice low but unyielding. “It’s good you and Mila left when you did. Men like him…they never change. And they never stop. The city will always bleed for them.”
A bitter taste fills my mouth. I press my hands tighter against the railing, searching for something—an answer, a defense, maybe just a way to breathe again. “You think I don’t know that?” I manage. “You think I ever forgot what he is?”
He doesn’t reply, and in the silence, I feel the weight of the city—of Konstantin’s shadow—settling over me, pressing down hard. I try to imagine another life, a safer one, but the truth is, I’m not sure it’s possible. Not for us, not anymore.