Page 47 of The Bratva's Secret Baby
I find work at a municipal office in a side building near the harbor. My job is to scan old property records, sort paper, label files, and sit under lights that flicker if you lean too far back. The hours are fixed. No one talks much. It’s the kind of place where people finish their work and go straight home.
I dress plainly, speak less, and stick to my routine. I don’t try to stand out. I become easy to miss.
I wonder whether Dominik is safe now. Whether stepping away forced him to stop. Whether leaving nothing behind finally did what explanations never could.
He would have kept going until something gave. I made the choice he couldn’t make for himself, and I don’t second-guess it. There wasn’t another version that kept him alive.
Mila sleeps against me, her fingers curled tightly into the fabric of my sleeve. She has my face. She doesn’t carry his eyes or hisname, or anything that would pull her backward. She belongs here, with me. That’s all that matters.
One afternoon, I sit with my phone in hand while Mila coos at the rattle I tied to her cot. I keep one foot on the base, pushing her gently as I scroll through old messages.
Most of it is routine clutter, old notes. Things that don’t matter. Then I find it in a folder I haven’t opened in weeks, a single line with coordinates and a time that’s already gone.
There’s a photo attached. Blurry, but clear enough to me. The side entrance of the clinic I used during my first trimester. The date is from this week. My first thought is Dominik. I dismiss it just as fast.
I shut the phone off and pull Mila into my arms. I hold her long after she’s asleep.
This isn’t a mistake.
Someone found me.
13
DOMINIK
Ana is gone when I get home.
I’m late. I unlock the door and step inside. The room is dark. A small blue light burns in the corner near the shelf. It’s the router. Still powered. Still connected. The apartment is silent. The sight freezes me harder than any sound could.
I don’t move right away, don’t call her name. I listen. Nothing. No hum of movement. I hear nothing except my own breath.
I flick the light on and take the room in with one clean sweep. Nothing’s disturbed. No drawers pulled out. No chair knocked loose. The table is clear. The glasses are washed and drying. Her coat hangs straight on the hook, sleeves aligned, untouched.
That’s wrong.
If men had come for her, there would be damage somewhere. Force always leaves residue. A rushed hand. A misplaced object. A sign of resistance, even the kind that doesn’t make noise. This place has none of it. It’s left intact, and that reads like purpose.
I move deeper, bedroom, bathroom, closet. Her side of the bed is made. The spare bag is missing. The trash is empty.
My temples throb. I let the anger rise just long enough to feel its shape, then force it down and settle it deep in my gut where it can sit and wait. I’ll need it steady, controlled.
She didn’t trust me to hold the line. That cuts. The council pulled me out with a fake summons and didn’t touch her, and she still vanished. That cuts deeper. If they dragged her out while I was gone, I would’ve had a name to go after. They didn’t.
What gets to me most is the lack of words. I check for a note. I scroll my phone slowly, looking for a message I might’ve missed while I was out, anything that says she’ll be back. There’s nothing.
I start opening drawers and cupboards. I pull clothes from the wardrobe, hers and mine, let them fall where they land. I check the sofa. Strip the bed down to the mattress. Nothing, no note, no pattern. No trace she didn’t mean to leave behind.
I splash cold water on my face and grip the edge of the sink until the pulse in my head evens out. Then I look at the apartment again, not searching now, just reading it.
The more I trace the order of things, the clearer it gets. This wasn’t rushed. It was layered.
She didn’t leave in a moment. She left in stages. The timing was chosen. The silence too. She gave me nothing to chase and nothing to interrupt her plan.
That changes everything. Because this isn’t a disappearance meant to be solved. It’s a move meant to be understood.
My eyes go where she keeps her chargers. They're missing. She made sure I’d see the absence. Ana didn’t run from the board. She stepped onto it.
I don’t like anyone moving pieces without me.
