Page 11 of Bratva Baby

I brush off the urge to grieve and check the pistol, load the magazine, rack the slide, and set the safety.

Then I slip it into the inner pocket of my coat and change my dress.

Off comes the silk blouse.

The tailored trousers go back into the almirah.

I pull on dark jeans, a neutral sweater, thick socks, and flat black boots that can carry me through a station without slowing me down. A cashmere scarf goes around my neck, soft and plain. My fingers brush the line of fur at the collar of the camel coat. It was my mother’s.

I leave it where it is and choose an oversized charcoal one with deep pockets and a shape that breaks up my frame. It hides the gun, the papers, and the fact that I was at a Leonidov party an hour ago.

My hair goes up into a practical low knot. I tie it with a plain elastic from the ceramic dish by the mirror and pin the worst of the loose strands back behind my ears.

I wipe my face clean until there’s nothing left to shine. Women get remembered by the details they think define them.

By the time I’m done, I look exactly what I need to be. A woman easy to miss in transit.

I jam everything into the cloth tote and then leave the apartment building through the service exit.

The door shuts behind me with a hard metal snap, and the sound kicks me into motion. I don’t look back.

Maks has men watching my building, and by now he may have more than that in place.

Cameras, logs, and orders moving through too many hands.

All of it has the same meaning—I’m running out of time.

I head for the side street where the bins sit under a broken lamp, my phone already in my hand. It’s pretty, expensive, and still tied to the family whether I like it or not.

I look at the screen for half a second before killing it and pulling the SIM.

Teeth grinding together, I position the phone, snap it, and drop the pieces into separate bins.

There’s no time to waste. I move fast and quiet, checking the storefronts as I go. They’re shut for the night, dark behind metal grilles and dusty glass, with only a few weak lights still burning over signs. The pavement is empty.

Wind starts to pick up along the block, colder than it was an hour ago, and I remember the storm warning from this morning.

I pull the collar of my coat higher, tighten my grip on the tote, and keep going.

At the next corner, I strip the pins from my hair and twist it up with both hands. Two blocks later, I’m in the back seat of a taxi I flag down with cash.

The driver starts with the weather. “Looks like a bad one tonight.”

I don’t answer and keep looking out the window, thick glasses hiding half my face.

He catches my face in the mirror, thinks better of whatever else he was about to say, and shuts up.

Good instincts.

He puts the car in gear and keeps his eyes on the road. I pull my second phone from the inside pocket of my coat and keep it low in my lap.

My father set this one up years ago under another name, then made me memorize the number before he ever let me use it. It isn’t tied to my real accounts, real habits, or the family’s usual channels.

He kept only what he thought would matter in a real emergency—banking access, a small contact list, and a private line so tightly held that almost nobody knows it exists.

For now, it lets me move quietly without cutting myself off from everything I may still need.

The driver checks the mirror again. When I look up, he clears his throat and asks, “Where to?”