Page 44 of The Bratva's Secret Baby
“I need a time. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
I cut the phone.
Irina sends the message the next day just after dusk. One word.Now.
I don’t answer. I dress instead. A shawl hauled close, goggles that hide my eyes, clothes that belong to no one important. I text her five minutes before I reach the mansion.
She’s already waiting at the back exit, the one that opens into an alley that smells like damp stone and old trash. She slips out and hugs the wall. I move fast, slide inside the perimeter. We move fast, keeping to shadows, slipping past ground that’s changedhands since Markov died. It skirts the edge of a temporary camp, fires burning banked, people busy enough not to look twice.
The crypt entrance waits just beyond, half collapsed and long ignored. It leads straight into the foundation of the house.
I reach my room without being seen. Nothing’s changed. I move fast. Documents folded flat. Cash counted once, then again. Jewelry chosen for weight, not memory. Clothes that won’t stand out. I open drawers I know exist, pull papers I’ve seen before, photograph what I can’t carry.
I don’t rush. I don’t stop. When I leave, the room looks untouched. Irina will see to the rest. Her face is pale, but she stands steady at the door.
“You’ll need papers,” she says. “Andrei can help.”
I nod. I’ve used him before. He fixed my laptop once when the screen went dark and I didn’t want anyone from the house asking why. His shop sits between a tailor and a key cutter, cash only, no questions unless you start them. He knows how to change a name without leaving fingerprints on it.
I leave the way I came. No one sees me. Before I go back to the apartment, I make one more stop at Ladozhsky Railway Station.
That night, I lie close to Dominik, my face against his chest, breathing him in like I need to remember it later. I don’t let my breathing change.
His arms stay around me, steady, certain. “I’ll protect you,” he says into my hair.
I believe him. But it’s not him I doubt. It’s the Bratva.
The next day, I leave.
12
ANA
The Bratva doesn’t summon men like Dominik in a rush. It uses procedure.
The call comes just after dusk, routed through a channel he can’t ignore without consequence. A compliance review gets framed as routine. Poor-quality fodder under a Markov contract, animals sick, some dead, the fallout loud enough to reach political offices in Moscow. Dominik’s name is on the original approval. The language is dry, administrative enough to pass.
He reads the message twice, his mouth tight, then deletes it.
“They want me across the river,” he says, already reaching for his jacket.
“For what?” I ask. My voice hovers on the edge.
“For clarification. Not at a council meeting.”
I keep my face calm. I ask the usual how long it will take, who’s expected to be in the room, and what floor they’re sending him to. He answers everything without hesitation, voice steady, nothing guarded.
He bends and plants a kiss on my lips. “ Whatever exists, it's outside the room, not between us.”
“No,” I say, kissing him back.
“They’re tightening things,” he adds, more to himself than to me. “This is just pressure.”
I move closer, slide my hand down his arm like it’s nothing new. “Go,” I say. “I’ll be here.”
He believes that. He wants to. He kisses my forehead, lingers longer than usual.
