Page 9 of The Bratva's Secret Baby
That tells me enough. I shut it off. This isn’t noise. It’s positioning. Ana isn’t a widow to them. She’s unresolved inventory. Too dangerous to leave unresolved.
This is what happens when a debt doesn’t stay buried, something that needs to be locked down before it drifts into the wrong hands. It means someone wants her claimed fast, and someone else wants her erased. Either way, they don’t want her deciding anything for herself.
The road opens and I push it past one twenty, then bleed the speed before the turn. I hit the brakes hard, feel the car settle, and swing left into the underground ramp at forty. I kill the lights and let us roll into shadow.
The car behind us misses the entrance and vanishes down the road.
I wait in silence. Thirty seconds. Maybe sixty. The engine idles softly, heat rising in the cabin. I watch the mirrors, every angle, waiting for a reversal or a second car that hangs back to be clever. Nothing.
In the rearview, I catch the pale oval of her face in the dim garage light. Her gaze is fixed on me, wide and alert. I give a slow blink, the only signal I can offer. Stay still.
After a minute, I decide to pull off. Forward is exactly what they’d expect if they came back for us. I take the exit only a few know exists, a faded service ramp off the Krestovaya Line that runs behind the abandoned warehouses, used mostly by locals and drivers avoiding the midday traffic snarl. Most hunters don’t bother with it because it looks like a dead end on every map.
But I know it. A narrow and cracked lane opens out onto Primorskoye Shosse, where traffic thins and sightlines open. Once we’re out, I pick a new direction with care, choosing roads that curve and divide instead of straight ones that broadcast our path.
I don’t slow down until I’m sure. When I finally stop, my hands are steady, but my jaw aches from being clenched too long. Ana is still pressed into the seat, hair loose around her face, a streak of blood on her cheek from the splintering glass.
She’s shaking but silent. It isn’t the cold doing it. It’s the chase, the understanding that someone is hunting her, slow to leave her system.
“You're hurt,” I say.
She shakes her head. “It’s nothing.”
I look at the cut again. It's a graze. I pull out my burner and hit a number I don’t use unless it’s this kind of situation.
Denis answers on the first ring.
“Need a clean switch,” I say.
“Where are you?” Denis asks, nothing more. He doesn’t talk much, and he doesn’t repeat what he hears.
I send the coordinates and textno tails. He sends a thumbs up and writesfive minutes, tops.
Ana throws open the door, coat whipping loose around her knees. The veil’s gone, lost somewhere between gunfire and flight. Her dark hair clings to her face. She stands on the curb, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the street.
“That cut doesn't look too bad,” I say. “It'll heal.” I stroke her cheek lightly.
She shuts her eyes and draws a long, tight breath.
“We’re going back,” she says.
I look at her, confused.
“Back where?”
“My apartment.”
“No.”
“Yes,” she snaps.
“You think going back to where they know you live is a good idea?”
Her eyes flare. “I live there. I can handle it.”
I stare at her like she’s lost her mind. “You call being shot at ‘handle’ now?”
She glares at me, coat tightening around her like armor.
