Page 12 of Bratva Baby

I give him one address.

Halfway there, I tap the divider and tell him to stop under a pharmacy sign.

I get out, wait until the red taillights disappear into the dark, then cross the street and cut through a narrow lane lined with locked garages and sleeping delivery vans.

The first name on my father’s sheet is Yuri Petrov.

Years ago, he handled overflow storage at a freight yard outside St. Petersburg and stayed close to men who collected debts, moved cargo, and remembered favors forever.

I met him as a child because my father trusted him enough to let him linger around the edges of business.

When I was twelve, Yuri handed me a pair of dirty binoculars and taught me how to read container numbers from across a yard.

He told me never to trust a man with soft hands in freight. When I was fourteen, he poured me tea so sweet it hurt my teeth and told my father I paid better attention than his sons.

I call his number.

Yuri doesn’t work Leonidov Freight anymore. After my father died, he stepped out of that lane and into another one built on the same bones—transport, storage, customs, and men willing to pay for things to move without questions.

Now it’s fish, caviar, refrigerated shipments, restaurant supply, and import paperwork tied to Caspian and Black Sea products.

When he answers, I don’t use my name. I use the old phrase my father wrote next to his number. “The winter manifests were wrong.”

The silence on the line feels pointed. Then a rough voice says, “Where are you?”

“Moving.”

“That bad?”

“Yes.”

Another pause. I hear a television somewhere behind him, then a woman’s voice and the clatter of kitchen utensils. Yuri breathes once into the phone. “You have cash?”

“Yes.”

“Documents?”

“Yes.”

“Then don’t come straight to me. Your father’s name still clings to mine in the wrong circles.”

I keep walking. “I need to stay close for a day or two.”

A pause. I can almost hear him sorting people, debts, and risk.

“Go to Zhenya Markina in Khimki,” he says at last. “Her husband died owing your father more than once. She’ll cover you for a night, maybe two. Keep your head down, and you won’t be sorry.”

I know whom he speaks of, so I nod, though he can’t see me. “I'd still need somewhere after that.”

“You’ll come to me,” Yuri wheezes.

“Spasibo, Yuri. Thank you.”

“No need.” His voice comes out gruff. “I’ll help you move when it’s time.”

“Where?”

“We’ll talk. You stay in Moscow, and the house folds you back in.”