Page 51 of The Bratva's Secret Baby
It’s shut down. The sign is gone, the windows are covered, and there isn’t even a notice on the door. I stand there long enough to make myself stop, then I go back inside and call Yelena Morina. On paper, she fixes old records before they’re archived, and in practice, she can find a name inside hospital and clinic logs, birth registries, and local files that aren’t meant to be searched.
I give her the name Andrei handed me and tell her what I need checked, and she says, “I’ll text when I get something,” and hangs up.
Two days later, Anton’s number rings until the call drops. No voicemail, no forwarded line, and no response when I try again.
I try Yelena next. Her line clicks busy, then the automated voice tells me I’ve dialed the wrong number. I dial again. Same result.
That’s when Gleb calls. He doesn’t bother with hello. “You haven’t learned.”
I let it sit.
“Karpov talked,” he says. “So did Ivan.”
I say, “Fine.”
“You killed Pyotr,” he says. “In a bar, in front of people. What were you thinking?”
“He said her name,” I say. “He talked about Ana like he could trade her.”
“You’ve got a reputation,” Gleb says. “Now it’s turning into a problem they can point at.”
I’ve heard it before.
“They’re closing doors,” he says. “They won’t do it loudly at first. They’ll do it the clean way. I’m telling you to get out of sight. Go missing for a while. Get a new identity.”
Then he hangs up.
It doesn’t happen in one move. It happens in small blocks. I go to Markov’s place and the gate stays closed, and the guard tells me, “You’re not allowed,” like he’s repeating someone else’s words. Karpov stops answering calls and texts. My ammo contact drops off, and then the backup does the same thing. I try a warehouse gate I’ve used for years, and the man on the intercom says I need approvals, but he won’t tell me from whom.
That’s when I stop calling it bad timing. Someone is giving the order, and everyone is following it.
My name doesn’t get me access now. It gets me blocked.
The council didn’t call or warn me. They didn’t send anyone to take me out. They did something that works better. They cut off the small supports that keep a man like me functional. Gates stay closed. Calls don’t get returned. Orders don’t go through. People who used to move fast for me suddenly need permission that never arrives.
That kind of isolation is cleaner than a bullet, and it takes longer.
Ana is still out there, and she’s doing it right. No messages. No obvious stops. No trail I can grab without putting a spotlight on her. Every time I press harder, the people around her lock down tighter, and I get fewer options.
So I stop pushing through the front.
I take stock of what I’ve been living on and I start shutting it down piece by piece. I stop answering calls, and I stop making them. I stop taking the routes I’ve taken for years, and I stop showing up in the places where people expect to see me. I don’t do it all at once, because that creates a pattern too, so I spread it out and keep it boring.
The council doesn’t need to order a hit. They just need me to stop making noise. So I stop. I let the city forget my habits, and I sit on the one thread I kept alive, waiting for someone to slip.
It’s a set of old accounts under Markov’s name. He didn’t explain them, but he didn’t need to. It’s money set aside and hidden inside quiet investments, the kind that sit untouched untilsomeone needs to move cash without drawing attention. Markov didn’t believe in second chances. He believed in second routes.
Money always leaves fingerprints. They just fade.
I build the monitor myself. No alerts. No noise. Just a silent line buried deep in the system, patient enough to sit there for years if that’s what it takes.
Markov’s vault was never quiet money. Anything that moved under his name would light up containment before it cleared.
When the file asks who the funds belong to, I don’t type his name.
I enterAna Markova.
And I let the system wait.
