Page 21 of The Bratva's Secret Baby
That’s not an answer. I get up from the counter.
I see now that widowhood doesn’t mean what I thought it did. It’s not a shield. It’s an excuse. A temporary condition for men to decide how to share what’s left.
I ask him about going back to the mansion. “I want to go back. Just for a few things. The mansion—” I say.
“No.”
“It’s mine too,” I insist.
“Not anymore,” Dominik replies. “You think going back there gives you control, but it doesn’t. It makes you visible, predictable. The council will use it against you.”
He says it like he’s defending a choice, and he doesn’t explain further. “And Markov’s phone?” I ask.
Dominik doesn’t answer right away. Then, he says flatly, “If you have it, turn it off. If you don’t, forget it ever rang.”
We do all this to stay ahead of the council. To buy time.
The visit happenson a gray afternoon when the rain comes down hard and sudden, soaking the streets before anyone has time to react. Wind drives it sideways, scattering leaves and grit, and the cold turns biting.
I wait for Dominik in a small cafe, tucked behind a column and a dying plant, out of sight unless you’re looking. The owner keeps a back room for us. We don’t share a roof anymore. We rotate instead in places like this. He says two targets are harder to track than one.
Across the street, the park’s thinning out. Mothers rush their kids home, coats pulled tight, hands locked around small wrists. They move toward warmth. Toward kitchens and radiators and a door that’ll always open for them.
I’ve forgotten what that feels like.
Dominik is late, late enough that it makes me nervous. The cafe is unremarkable, with glass walls and narrow tables, clinging tothe sidewalk edge where few people pass and fewer bother to look. I thought that would make it safer.
Now I’m not so sure. The door opens and closes more often than I like. Wet coats driven inside by the storm brush past each other. Cups clink. Someone laughs too loudly near the counter. I keep my face neutral and my posture relaxed, but I track reflections in the glass, movements outside, the rhythm of footsteps.
I’m already reaching for the burner when the door opens again. My face lifts. Dominik, finally. But it’s not him. The man who enters is older, coat damp, his bony face all angles in the wrong way.
He spots me, and I stare into eyes that are glassy, unreadable, set deep under thinning brows. He looks away, unhurried, then turns back. His mouth spreads into a smile that never touches his eyes. He locks his gaze on me like he always knew where I’d be.
And I realize, too late, that the table I chose doesn’t hide me. It makes me easy to trap.
He walks in slowly and carefully, then sits across from me without introducing himself. He doesn’t need to. His suit is expensive without being flashy. His hands are clean. His eyes don’t wander.
An elder. I know him. He’s Mikhail Petrovich Orlov, old power, the traditional kind.
From where he sits, he lifts a finger. A waitress appears almost immediately.
“One tea,” he says without raising his voice, “and onesyrnikifor madam.”
I flush red despite myself.
He doesn’t reach for his tea when it arrives and takes his time. Then he lifts the cup and sips slowly. His eyes never leave mine while he drinks.
“You’ve been difficult to reach,” he finally says.
“I’ve been busy.”
“Grieving,” he says as he studies me like I’m a document he’s already read. “Relocating. Reconsidering.”
“I’m not sure what you want,” I say, straining to keep my expression flat.
“Oh, I think you are.” He laughs humorlessly.
He folds his hands on the table. “Tradition allows a widow time, but not independence. Your husband’s position left gaps and debts, and there are expectations attached to both.”
