Chapter 5 #2
They think I’ve lost my edge, that I’ve forgotten who I am, but they couldn’t be more wrong.
They don’t understand what it means to be a father, to be a man who was denied the right to know his own son and have tasted the possibility of peace, only to have it ripped away by a ghost from a blood-soaked past.
They don’t understand but they will, because one way or another, I will get Ivy and Leo back. If I have to tear the Bratva apart brick by brick to do it, then so be it.
When my phone rattles in my pocket, I pull it out without thinking, the screen lighting up in my palm. I don’t bother to glance at the caller ID. I’m too wound up to care.
“What?” I snap, harsher than I mean to, but I don’t have the energy for pleasantries anymore.
There’s a pause, then Lev’s voice comes through, low and cautious. “Before I say anything, you need to know this is not verified.”
My brows lift instinctively, forcing me to settle back down into my chair. Lev rarely prefaces anything. He’s too methodical to deal in half-truths or speculations. The fact that he’s giving me a warning first makes my stomach tighten.
“Go on,” I say, already on edge.
He lets out a soft breath, just audible over the line. “I’ve been hearing things… whispers, nothing solid yet. But I’ve been digging, and a rumor came up.”
“What kind of rumor?”
Another pause like he’s bracing himself for how I might react. “Mikhail may be involved with a woman.”
I blink, caught off guard. “What?”
“Word is, she’s pregnant.”
My hand tightens around the phone. The words don’t register immediately. Pregnant? Mikhail? With someone? “You’re sure? That’s not the kind of detail we can afford to be wrong about.”
“No,” he admits. “Not yet. But if it’s true, then Mikhail does have something to lose after all, and that changes everything. But again, none of this is verified yet, so I don’t want you getting your hopes up if it turns out to be nothing.”
I let that sit there for a moment, the implications circling like vultures.
It’s the first time since this all began that there’s been even the faintest crack in Mikhail’s armor. He’s always acted like he had nothing to lose, like every move he made was calculated chaos with no risk to himself. But if there’s someone, and if that someone is carrying his child…
That’s not just a weakness. That’s leverage.
One I can return the favor and use against him. If Mikhail has a woman hidden away, he’s not just playing games anymore. He’s building something to last. Or at the very least trying to. Men like him don’t do that unless they think they’ll win.
Which means he has blinders that can be used against him.
“If any of this is true, he won’t hide her the way he’s hiding Ivy and Leo. He’ll want to keep her close and accessible. Not left in Russia.”
“Agreed,” Lev says.
I rise from my chair once again. “I’ll get Matvey on this. Whatever else you’ve dug up so far, send his way.”
“You got it.”
Following the trail is slow work, full of dead ends and inconclusive leads. But then, finally, we land on something solid.
A name.
Emily Kreslova.
There’s nothing remarkable about her at first glance. No known affiliations with the Russian underground, no records with Interpol, no red flags in any government databases. Her background is squeaky clean. The kind of clean that either comes from a boring life or skill at staying off the radar.
She teaches second grade at a modest public school in the city. Her tax records are steady and predictable. No sudden financial spikes that would indicate a hidden payout, a debt paid, or a bribe taken. Her apartment is registered under her own name.
No suspicious aliases, no shell companies, no reason that a woman like her should be tied to a man like Mikhail Sidrov.
And yet, she is.
The first red flag shows up in the form of grainy CCTV footage taken outside her apartment complex—a black SUV with tinted windows pulls up to the curb at exactly 8:03 p.m. two nights ago.
The camera angle doesn’t offer a clear look at the driver, but when the passenger door opens, the figure that steps out is unmistakable.
Broad shoulders, distinct gait, that same calculating posture I’ve seen a dozen times.
Mikhail.
A second later, the front door of the building opens and Emily appears. She looks relaxed when she greets him, no hint of fear reflecting in her posture or demeanor. She reaches for him with a familiarity that speaks volumes, then the two of them disappear inside the building together.
That footage alone would be damning, but there’s more—another clip from the same building timestamped just before dawn the following morning of the same man stepping out alone. The SUV is waiting at the curb, Mikhail climbs in, his face half-shadowed by the rising sun before the vehicle drives off.
I sit at the monitor and watch the footage on loop, staring until the screen begins to blur.
Lev was right.
I watch Emily smile at him from another angle on a different morning when they’re parting ways again, the tilt of her head slight as she speaks, like she’s done it a thousand times before.
There’s a tenderness in her movements, subtle but present.
It’s not a one-time affair. That’s what makes it dangerous.
If Emily Kreslova is the soft place Mikhail retreats to, the one part of his life untouched by the blood and bullets he commands, then she’s more than a weakness. She’s the point where his heart is laid bare.
The contradiction is maddening.
Everything about her says innocent. She’s the kind of woman who probably stays after school to help kids with their homework.
The one who makes casseroles for local bake sales to raise money for charity and volunteers on the weekends.
She doesn’t fit into this world at all, much like Ivy doesn’t.
Yet here she is, threaded neatly into his life.
That contrast is what gnaws at me the most. Mikhail wouldn’t parade her through his empire. Wouldn’t tell the men who serve him and risk flaunting her like a trophy to people who could just as quickly seek to use her against him.
He’s hiding her for a reason.
Hours later, Roman and I find myself outside her apartment building tucked into a modest, aging square right outside the city center. The architecture is unremarkable, five stories of peeling paint and sagging gutters. It’s a building you’d walk past a hundred times and never remember it.
Inside isn’t much better.
There are no security cameras in the hallways, just water-stained ceilings and the dull stink of mildew creeping up the stairwell. The single overhead light flickers every few seconds like it’s breathing.
No one passes us on our way to the rental office, but the building is far from silent.
We hear the murmur of a television behind one door, a baby crying faintly behind another, the scrape of a chair across a tiled floor further down.
Life is still happening all around here, just not the kind that looks up from its routine.
The landlord is a short and wiry man with breath that smells of old onions and tobacco. His eyes don’t quite meet mine when I hold out the envelope of forged papers Matvey created to make us look like we’re inspectors from the city dropping by.
He gives a quick nod after thumbing through the folded papers, then hands over a key ring with a dozen tarnished copies and waves us down the hall with a grunt. We don’t bother to give him a name and he doesn’t bother to ask for one.
Her apartment is easy to find. It’s the only one on the floor with any sign of care.
The door is painted a pale blue. It’s chipped at the corners, but freshly cleaned.
A wreath made of dried lavender and twine hangs from a brass hook, a ceramic welcome sign is pinned beneath the peephole, hand-painted with soft pastel flowers.
There is even a welcome mat featuring a tiny potted succulent. Under it, a large ‘WELCOME’ is printed.
All of it feels… out of place. Too soft and personal for a rundown building like this. Or the man who frequently visits.
I unlock the door and ease it open.
The scent hits immediately—clean laundry and something warmer underneath. Incense that is faintly floral with a musky base. Sandalwood, maybe. It lingers in the air, surrounding us. We step inside and close the door, the soft click echoing through a space that’s silent and still.
Roman veers off toward the kitchen, his movements fluid and quiet as a shadow. I leave him to it, drawn toward the living room.
It’s small, but not cramped.
The furniture is mismatched, but each piece has clearly been chosen for comfort rather than appearance.
Soft throws over the couch, overstuffed pillows in gentle earth tones, a bookshelf that overflows in the corner.
Not just with novels but lesson plans, laminated charts, hand-drawn children’s artwork.
One of them says Ms. Kreslova is the best teacher ever! in bright crayon letters.
On the coffee table sits a half-burned candle and a mug of cold tea that’s been long since abandoned. There’s an open notebook beside it, filled with neat, looping cursive. I move closer, scanning the contents.
Vocabulary List: Weather Words. Homework Due Thursday. Call pediatrician—confirm appointment.
Domestic and innocuous. A far cry from the kind of records I’m used to finding when I dig into a man like Mikhail. No encrypted drives, no ledgers, no cash hidden in offshore accounts.
Just a woman’s life, quiet, simple, and normal.
Roman reappears from the kitchen holding up something in his hand. “Found these. Prenatal vitamins.”
I take them from him and rotate them in my hand a few times. So, the rumors are true. She is pregnant.
I scan the room again, slower this time. Everywhere I look is another confirmation of her world remaining untouched by violence and fear. She has no idea how close she lives to the edge of danger, no idea what Mikhail is truly capable of.