Page 61 of The Bratva's Secret Baby
“It changes what you are to them,” I reply. “You stop being Markov’s widow on paper. You become my wife. If they try to grab you after that, they have to admit they’re breaking their own rules, and they don’t like doing that where it can be traced.”
She doesn’t talk for a second, and I can see the calculation on her face.
“They won’t like it,” she says.
“I’m not doing this to make them comfortable,” I say.
She turns and goes back inside. When she returns, the passport is in her hand. She gives it to me like she’s handing over a weapon, not a booklet.
I take it and head for the door.
She follows me. “When will you be back?”
“By afternoon. You keep yourself and Mila safe,” I say. “Stay inside. Don’t open the door for anyone. If you need something, call me first.”
“You said afternoon,” she replies.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” I say.
She looks up at me, searches my face, then kisses me once, slow, like she’s choosing it. I kiss her back, just as simply, and then I take my jacket and leave.
I hail a taxi from the curb and give my old address, the one I’m still using on paper. I sit in the back and watch the reflections in the glass instead of the street, and I keep track of turns and stops while I check whether anyone stays with us longer than theyshould. No one does. The driver drops me two blocks short and pulls away without looking back.
The apartment door gives under my hand without resistance. No blinds are drawn, but I leave them untouched. A single bulb clicks on—just enough light to work without making the windows glow from the street.
Nothing looks disturbed. I don’t trust that. I move through it piece by piece. The pistol waits behind the false panel, exactly where it should be. I take it first, then peel the spare magazine from behind the radiator. The passports follow—mine and the second with the Nikolai name—slipped into the inner lining of my coat. Under the sink, the tin lifts free with a clean snap, and the cash inside is still dry and stacked right.
I take the external drive from the drawer. The burner phone stays powered off, but it goes in the pocket regardless. Every item is muscle memory.
Windows closed. Locks untouched. Stairwell clear. One last look out front, no watchers, no cars within sight. Nothing out of place.
I don’t risk the elevator. The stairwell gives me fewer eyes. Nothing in the garage screams of any obvious threat. The car is there, just as I left it.
Still, I walk the full circle. Mirror edges, undercarriage, wheel wells, back bumper—nothing's moved, nothing’s marked. The pillars don’t hide movement. The dust hasn’t shifted.
Only then do I reach for the door.
I drive out, pick up speed once I hit the main road, and run a quick loop through a side street to make sure I’m alone before I commit to the route.
The hospital rises ahead, wide and gray, already busy when I pull in. I badge through the staff entrance under the name Nikolai Sokolov, the one I took when I stepped out of my old life. Sergei is at the desk with coffee in one hand and a clipboard in the other. Mikhail is arguing with a delivery driver about parking. Yaroslav lifts a hand from the monitor wall without taking his eyes off the screens. I stay visible enough that no one questions why I’m here.
To the council, I was the problem, not her. They shut me out and waited for me to slip. So I put myself somewhere steady, somewhere official, where I couldn’t be brushed aside.
It’s the same every day, and I keep it that way. Visitors get lost. A drunk relative raises his voice. An alarm goes off and turns into nothing. I walk the floors, check the doors, and sign the reports.
Between rounds, my mind keeps moving. I count dates. I line up paperwork. I decide who needs to know and who doesn’t. If this is going to happen, it happens clean and fast.
I finish my shift, sign out, and walk to the car like it’s just another day. I already know I’m not coming back.
I know how the Bratva reacts when something goes wrong in public and leaves bodies behind. I’ve been on the side that cleaned it up. I won’t give them a clean place to pin me. And I won’t leave a trail that leads back to Ana and the kid.
Before the night’s over, my badge won’t work, my name won’t be on the rotation, and the number this hospital has for me won’t reach anyone.
Ana vanished in daylight off a flagged account after a recovery order went out. That doesn’t sit cleanly. They won’t shout about it. They’ll tighten around it.
They’ll know it wasn’t random. They’ll know it was someone who understood their structure. It won’t take long before they land on me. After that, it stops being about the men who died. It becomes about where I stand.
If I’m still inside their rules, I get corrected. If I’m outside them, I get removed.
