Chapter 21 Nadya
NADYA
They leave me with three rolling racks of evening gowns—satin, sequins, high-neck elegance clearly chosen to make me look safe and respectable beside the Bratva king.
Exactly what he wants.
I thumb past navy and silver until my fingers land on something that absolutely does not fit the brief—crimson silk that gleams like fresh blood, cut on the bias so it will cling to every line of my body.
The neckline plunges to the base of my sternum, the back scoops low enough to bare the dimples above my hips, and one slit—high, scandalous—runs nearly to my waist. No sleeves, no bra, just thin spaghetti straps and audacity. Perfect.
The stylists trade uneasy glances, but I slip into it anyway, ignoring their murmured offers of something more modest. I add onyx stilettos with razor-thin straps and drag a tube of red-black lipstick across my mouth.
When I meet my own gaze in the mirror, my pulse is hammering—part nerves, part satisfaction.
If Konstantin wants a show of unity, he’s getting my version.
I step into the hallway. He’s waiting with Viktor and Maksim, already in a charcoal suit, knife-sharp. Conversation dies the instant they see me.
Konstantin’s eyes flick down—one quick, involuntary sweep that darkens with heat and irritation before he schools his features blank again. Anyone else would miss it. I don’t.
“Bold choice,” he says evenly. The muscle in his jaw betrays him.
“I thought you’d appreciate honesty,” I answer, lifting my chin.
Before the air can crack open, Mila rushes out from a side room, dress shoes tapping. He catches her hand. “You’re riding with us, malyshka.”
My stomach knots. “Konstantin, a party full of strangers isn’t—”
“She stays where I can see her,” he interrupts, voice steel. “No safer place tonight than by my side.”
I bite back the argument.
I wonder, not for the first time, what Arman must be thinking right now.
Is he worried? Has Rifat gone back to the safe house to find it empty, panic crawling up his spine?
Does my father know I’ve vanished—has the news reached him yet, and if so, what will he do?
Would they risk something drastic to get me back, or have I burned through the last of their patience?
The thought gnaws at me. For all our secrets and shifting loyalties, I know one thing—they won’t stand by forever. If they believe I’m in danger, they’ll make noise, draw lines, maybe even force Konstantin’s hand. I don’t know if that terrifies me more for myself, or for Mila.
Mila looks up, sensing my unease. I smooth her hair, force a small smile. “Stay close to me, okay?”
She nods, and I let Konstantin lead us out, the silk of my dress whispering with each step, daring anyone watching to underestimate me.
The car glides away from the curb, city lights flickering past, everything outside the tinted windows turning strange and far away.
Mila sits quietly between us, her hand clutched tight in mine, her gaze fixed on the sparkling skyline.
I keep my attention on Konstantin, refusing to let the silence grow heavy enough to smother me.
I clear my throat, keeping my tone casual but pointed. “Where are we going, exactly? What kind of party is this?”
Konstantin watches the street for a moment, jaw working.
At last he turns, meets my eyes. “Penthouse ballroom of the Volkov Hotel,” he says.
“Officially it’s a fundraiser—new children’s oncology wing.
Unofficially it’s a gathering of every power broker who wants to measure whether I’m still the man to bet on. ”
“Bratva bosses?”
“A handful. A couple of city councilors, three judges, two foreign investors, and a generous scattering of journalists who know which stories keep them breathing.” His gaze lingers on my dress.
“Tonight is about optics. They need to see family unity after the mess at the pier and the whispers about Alexei’s woman. ”
“So Mila and I are exhibits.”
“You’re my wife and my daughter,” he corrects, voice quiet but immovable. “Your presence says no one can reach what matters most to me. And the dress”—his mouth tilts, half-wry, half-hungry—“tells every man in the room I’m still willing to take risks they aren’t.”
I bite back a reply. Mila traces patterns on the seat between us, oblivious to the currents swirling over her head.
I smooth a hand over her curls and look at him again. “Security?”
“Entire floor is locked down,” he answers. “Two hundred guests, cleared and scanned. My men inside, hotel detail outside, city police on the perimeter. If anyone tries something, they’ll never make it to the elevators.”
“And the exit plan if things go wrong?”
“South stairwell to the service garage. Armored van waiting. From there—safe house by the river.” A beat. “You’ll ride with Viktor and Maksim. Mila stays in your arms the whole time.”
The hotel rises ahead of us, lights shimmering across the tinted glass as we draw closer. I take a steadying breath, but I can’t hold back the question that’s been gnawing at my thoughts.
“Konstantin,” I say softly, careful not to alarm Mila, “is it true what they’re saying about Alexei’s mistress? That she was thrown from the bridge?”
He remains silent, eyes fixed ahead as though he hasn’t heard me. But I know he has. His jaw tightens subtly, the muscle flexing beneath his skin, betraying more than words ever could. His silence settles heavily between us, answering louder than any denial or confession might have.
The SUV pulls smoothly beneath the hotel’s porte cochere, lights from dozens of waiting cameras flooding through the windows.
Security shifts into motion, stepping forward as our driver moves to open the door.
Konstantin glances at me, wordlessly urging me to follow, but I remain seated, Mila’s small hand clasped firmly in mine.
“Nadya,” he says quietly, extending a hand toward me, calm and controlled for the public eye.
I don’t move. The thought of stepping out, of showing unity when he’s refused even this small honesty, is more than I can bear. Mila looks up at me, uncertain, her little fingers tightening around mine.
Outside, photographers grow restless, security men leaning forward as seconds stretch uncomfortably.
Konstantin exhales slowly, then gently lifts Mila into one arm.
Before I can protest, his other hand closes firmly around my wrist, drawing me from my seat with quiet, uncompromising strength.
I resist briefly, enough for him to feel it, enough to make it clear I’m here under protest. But his grip remains firm, careful but unyielding, and he guides me onto the sidewalk beside him.
We emerge into a cascade of flashing cameras and hushed murmurs, Mila resting comfortably against her father’s shoulder, oblivious to the tension simmering between us.
Konstantin stands tall, composed, every inch the man in control, while I hold my head high, aware that to the eyes watching us we appear unified and unbreakable.
The ballroom is breathtaking, glittering chandeliers casting pools of warm, golden light onto marble floors.
Konstantin drifts naturally into conversation with a small cluster of men in expensive suits, their postures perfectly confident. I’m left momentarily alone, pulse quickening as I scan the crowd for familiar faces.
Then I see them—Tatiana, Kira, Lena, and Dasha, gathered near a sleek marble-topped table, laughing softly together as though untouched by the pressures of the room.
Tatiana notices me first, eyebrows arching in surprise as her eyes skim boldly up and down my dress.
The others follow her gaze, expressions shifting quickly from surprise to amusement.
“Bold choice,” Tatiana says, stepping closer, an elegant flute of champagne balanced between delicate fingers. Her lips curve into an appreciative but knowing smile. “Did Konstantin approve this little statement?”
Kira tilts her head, her expression softer, curiosity bright in her eyes. “I have to admit, Nadya, you’re definitely making an impression tonight. I almost didn’t recognize you.”
Dasha giggles quietly. “I think everyone here recognized her immediately. Especially the men.”
Lena nudges Dasha’s elbow gently, but her grin is conspiratorial. “She’s just jealous she didn’t think to be daring first.”
I manage a small laugh, feeling slightly steadied by their playful warmth.
“I have to say, Nadya, I didn’t think you had it in you,” Tatiana says.
I give her a faint, tense smile. “Maybe I didn’t either.”
Lena and Kira share a look, curiosity shimmering in their eyes, but they’re kind enough not to comment further.
“It wasn’t exactly meant to be a statement,” I say, forcing casualness into my voice. “More of a…reminder, I suppose.”
Tatiana raises an eyebrow, leaning in slightly. “A reminder to Konstantin, or to yourself?”
I pause, startled by how quickly she’s seen through me.
But I don’t have time to reply before my gaze catches sight of Anya across the room.
She stands near the bar, wrapped in a modest, perfectly tailored black gown—elegant, understated, and utterly poised.
Her confidence radiates effortlessly, making my boldness suddenly feel excessive, my bright silk and exposed skin out of place.
Kira notices my glance, leaning slightly closer. “Ignore her,” she whispers gently, giving my elbow a comforting squeeze.
Tatiana follows my gaze, her eyebrow raising with mild curiosity. “Who’s she?”
Before I can respond, Konstantin moves smoothly through the crowd, stepping closer to Anya, leaning down slightly as she smiles up at him. The easy familiarity between them sends a sharp, painful twist through my chest.
Dasha glances at me, then back at Konstantin and Anya, her voice lowering as she murmurs softly, “Uh-oh. Trouble in paradise?”