Chapter 23 Nadya #2
He watches me for a long moment, then sits beside me, resting his hand gently on my shoulder. For the first time in years, I let myself lean into his touch, exhaustion settling into my bones.
“We’ll figure it out, Nadya,” he says quietly. “I promise. Whatever it takes, we’ll keep her safe.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat.
Pyotr watches me finish packing, his brow still furrowed with worry. He stands in the doorway, arms folded tight. “Let me get you both some soup. You need to eat something, Nadya. We can wait it out for tonight and leave first thing in the morning, all right?”
I nod, too tired to argue. “Thank you, Papa.” My voice is small, but I mean it. The weight of the day presses against my chest, every muscle aching with exhaustion.
He squeezes my shoulder once before stepping out of the room, his footsteps echoing softly down the hall.
As soon as I hear the kitchen door click shut, I reach into my pocket and pull out a phone. Not mine, not Konstantin’s, but heavy and unfamiliar. I turn it over in my palm, my heart thudding. The case is cracked, the screen smeared with someone else’s blood. Kirov’s phone.
I unlock the phone, hands shaking, pulse roaring in my ears. Kirov never bothered with a passcode—maybe he thought no one would dare steal from him, or maybe he just didn’t expect to die tonight. Either way, the screen lights up, and I swipe through the darkness, praying for something, anything.
His call log is a mess of unknown numbers and cryptic contact names. The most recent calls are all outgoing—one to “V,” one to a series of digits with a Russian country code, and several unanswered attempts to a number saved as “MOTHER.”
I move to his messages. There’s a thread with “V”—the texts are terse, full of threats and times and locations. The last one makes my skin crawl:
At the river. Bring the kid. K will show. Don’t let the wife leave.
I scroll further. One chain of texts is in code, but a few words stand out: “warehouse,” “package moved,” “old city docks,” “Alexei confirmed.”
Photos too. I flip to the gallery and see a picture of Nikolai, taken just days ago.
He’s alive. My hands fly to my mouth, tears blurring my vision.
There are pictures of other children—some with faces blurred, some not.
Each is tagged with a location, most of them coordinates near the port and old industrial parts of the city.
There’s one voice message, recent. I put the phone to my ear, heart pounding.
A man’s voice—Alexei, I’m sure—rasps, “You know what to do if they come. No mistakes. The boy goes first. The mother can watch. End it if you have to.”
I gasp, bile rising in my throat, and clutch the phone tighter. I scroll back, memorizing the coordinates, burning the images into my mind.
Nikolai is alive. They’re planning something, and I have just enough of a head start to do something about it.
Pyotr returns, the old mug steaming in his hands. He sets it down gently on the bedside table, careful not to wake Mila. His tired eyes search my face, and I know he’s waiting for a sign—any sign—that I’ll let him take care of this, that I’ll let him pull me and Mila out of the fire one more time.
“I’ll book the tickets,” he says softly, sitting beside me. “Morning train, even if we have to buy new names to do it. We’ll disappear, start over somewhere else. It’s safest.”
I shake my head, voice coming out steadier than I feel. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I expect him to have more questions, to give me a look of pure disbelief. I expect him to think that I’ve finally lost it.
Instead, he says softly, “You’ve always known your mind, Nadya. I trust you.”
His words catch me off guard, so simple and true they almost break me. I blink away the sting of tears and nod, grateful beyond measure for his quiet faith in me.
Mila stirs in her sleep, curling closer to the pillow. Pyotr lays a gentle hand on her back, then squeezes my shoulder. “Whatever you need, you have it.”
I don’t tell him about the phone hidden beneath the blanket, about what I found or what I plan to do. Some burdens are mine alone, and for now, his calm acceptance is all the comfort I need.
I push the soup aside, barely tasting the warmth drifting up from the bowl. My thoughts whirl, but I force myself to look at my father, to say the words that have been burning inside me since that car ride.
“I found out about Arman,” I tell him, my voice barely above a whisper. “His connection to the Veles. He was branded.”
Pyotr sighs, rubbing a tired hand over his face.
“I’m not surprised,” he says finally. His voice is soft, but there’s a heaviness to it, as if some old burden has settled again on his shoulders.
“Your mother was heartbroken when he left the continent, you know. She never talked about it, but I always thought there was something he wasn’t telling us. ”
I bite my lip.
“He grew rich overnight. Expensive gifts, new cars, all those stories about ‘business’ in Serbia and Hungary. I thought it was just luck.” Pyotr shakes his head, his eyes dark with regret. “No one gets that lucky, Nadya. Not in our world.”
I watch the city from the window, the lights blurred by exhaustion and too many tears.
Pyotr lingers in the doorway for a moment, then quietly leaves me alone, the sound of his slippers fading down the hall.
I press my forehead to the cool glass, searching for calm in the black sweep of sky, but the fear and resolve in my chest only tangle tighter.
I turn back to the room. “Papa,” I call softly, “do you have a spare phone I can use?”
He appears in the doorway again, frowning, then disappears into the kitchen. After a minute, he returns and presses a battered old phone into my palm. “It still works. The charger is in the drawer.”
I thank him. He leaves me to my thoughts and the hush of the sleeping apartment.
I sit at the little desk and scroll through the menu, the plastic worn smooth from years of use. I wonder for a moment where Konstantin is, what he’s doing out there in the city—if he’s hunting, hurting, or just as lost as I am.
Something tugs at the edge of my mind, a fragment of conversation from earlier in the night. A number. I dial it, heart thumping as I try to recall the last digit. The phone rings, crackling, and finally a groggy voice answers.
“Who’s this?” Tatiana says, thick with sleep.
“Tatiana? It’s Nadya,” I reply, relief flooding me even as my hands shake.
“Nadya? What time is it? Whose number is this?” She sounds more awake, suspicion blooming in her voice.
“That’s not important. There’s something you mentioned tonight…”
I close my eyes, words spilling out quietly, knowing this is the first step in something new.
When I end the call with Tatiana, I stare down at the battered phone, my thumb trembling over the keypad. The apartment is silent except for the faint hum of the city beyond the glass. I know what I have to do next, even if every instinct in me screams to hide.
I find Dimas’s number and call. The phone rings a few times before he answers, his voice tired but steady. “Hello?”
“It’s Nadya,” I say quietly. “I need your help. But first—can I trust you, Dimas? You can’t talk to Rifat about this. Promise me.”
There’s a pause, then his reply comes, firm and without hesitation. “That won’t be a problem. I’m out of that team now…after Katya.”
A wave of guilt hits me so hard I almost hang up. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I shouldn’t bother you with this.”
He lets the silence stretch for a moment, then his tone softens. “Are you in trouble, Nadya?”
I can’t bring myself to answer. Not really. I swallow hard, the words sticking in my throat.
He sighs quietly. “Meet me at the restaurant on Levitsky. Tomorrow, eight in the morning. Don’t be late.”
The call ends, and I sit there in the dark for a long time, the phone heavy in my hand, Mila’s small form curled behind me. The city feels even bigger now, the night thick with secrets. But at least, for the first time in days, I have a direction.
The restaurant is nearly empty this early, just the faint clatter of plates in the kitchen and a waitress sleepily refilling coffee cups.
Dimas sits in the far corner, away from the window, face shadowed by a cap.
I slide into the booth across from him, my nerves tight, hands knotted together in my lap.
We talk for a few minutes, just small words and the kind of careful questions old friends use when everything else feels too dangerous. Then I finally ask what I came for. “Dimas, what really happened that night?”
He sighs, running a hand over his jaw. “It was chaos. Arman called the shots, kept everyone focused on Ludmila. Katya got pinned down—she could have been pulled out, but Arman wouldn’t let anyone break formation. He left her, Nadya. The rest of us were just trying to get out alive.”
His voice cracks, anger and grief buried deep. “And now Katya is dead. The worst part? No one’s even mourning her. Not after everything she did for the team. They just moved on, like she never mattered.”
Guilt claws at me. I press my fingers to my eyes. “I’m sorry, Dimas. I should have been there. I should have done more.”
He shakes his head gently. “It’s not your fault. I heard you had your own battles to fight.”
I look down at the scratched surface of the table, my voice barely audible. “I should have taken out Alexei. If I had, Katya might still be alive. This one is on me.”
Dimas frowns, leaning in, his eyes steady on mine. “Alexei wasn’t there, Nadya. He sent his men, but he wasn’t at the warehouse himself.”
I sit quietly, the words stuck behind my teeth. Dimas watches me for a moment, his patience gentle but unyielding.
“What did you want to talk about, Nadya?” he asks, his voice softer now.
I swallow, reach into my bag, and slide Kirov’s battered phone across the table. “I found this,” I say. “It’s unlocked, but I can’t make head or tail out of it. The data is mostly encrypted, or hidden. I need you to look at it. Please.”
He picks up the phone, studying it with a frown. “Where did you get this?”
“From Kirov, during the chaos,” I answer, my fingers twisting in my lap. “There are messages, locations, maybe contacts—I don’t know. But—” I stop, the breath hitching in my throat. “Dimas, I need to know if Nikolai is still alive.”
The table feels too small for the weight of what I’m asking. I meet his gaze, my heart pounding in my chest, hope and fear knotted together so tightly it hurts to breathe.
Dimas props open his laptop, connecting the phone with practiced fingers. I watch him work, my heart hammering out a nervous, relentless beat. His eyes flicker as lines of code scroll across the screen, the only sounds the quiet click of keys and the distant hum of the restaurant.
I hug myself, trying to keep from trembling, desperate for news, for hope, for anything that isn’t more silence and loss.
The minutes crawl by. I watch his coffee grow cold, watch the pale light shift on the linoleum floor.
At last, after what feels like a lifetime, Dimas exhales, shoulders loosening.
“Got something.” He angles the screen so I can see.
A string of coordinates flashes on a map overlay, centered on the river’s industrial strip.
“Abandoned cargo ship,” he says. “Moored five kilometers downstream. No registered crew, no transponder. Somebody’s using it as a blind spot. ”
“Is there proof he was there?” My voice shakes.
Dimas opens a folder. A recent photo flickers onto the screen—a dim interior shot, steel bulkheads streaked with rust. In the corner, on a stained mattress, sits a boy—knees drawn to his chest, wrists zip-tied.
The picture is grainy, but the profile, the dark hair, the angle of his jaw—my heart cracks. “Nikolai,” I whisper.
“There’s more,” Dimas says, scrolling. “Text logs confirm deliveries—food, blankets—marked for ‘the kid.’ Timestamps no older than two days.”
Relief surges and dies just as quickly. Dimas rubs a hand over his face. “But…”
“But what?” I snap.
He looks at me, concern clear. “It could be a trap. Whoever sent those messages knew Kirov might fall. They could expect someone to come running. You should take backup.”
I shake my head, gripping my elbows until my fingers ache. “No. There’s no one I trust. Not anymore. I’ll go alone.”
He tries to argue, but I just shake my head again, my resolve like a stone in my chest. For Nikolai, for Mila, for the last scraps of my family—I have to do this myself.