Page 31 of Bratva Baby

He’s hiding cargo inside normal freight movement, reopening shipment series that were supposed to stay closed, and pushing money into side accounts the main house can’t see. I tap the pen once against the page and stare at the last line.

Maks built a secret pipeline inside the family business, and he’s using it to move goods and pile up money without permission.

That matters because men like Maks don’t build private channels just to feel clever. I lean back, then forward again, and drag a hand over my mouth. He’s building his own reserve of cash, access, and leverage, and once a man like that has enough of all three, he stops waiting to be handed power and starts taking it.

If this breaks open the wrong way, Grigor looks blind, the family looks split, and those buried links to the old Reznikov dispute drag old blood back to the surface.

I should take it to Grigor. I write his name down, then cross it out so hard, the pen nearly tears the paper.

In real life, Maks knows I found it, and he knows I’m not built to shrug and walk away. Grigor still knows nothing, which keeps Maks protected by secrecy for now. I don’t get that protection. I’m the one sitting here with proof in my bag and no safe way to use it.

I stop, tap the pen once against the paper, and look at the milk cooling on the counter. Then I reach for the mug, take a careful sip, and let the warmth settle while I think.

What I have still isn’t enough.

I need proof that ties the hidden corridor, the siphoned money, and the old intermediary killing together tightly enough that Maks can’t talk his way out of it. If I move, I have to move hard enough that the truth survives after I’m shoved out of the room. That thought clears something in me, and I start writing again, faster now. Originals. Backup links. Payment chains that hold up under scrutiny. Shell companies with real signatures behind them. Enough to make Maks politically toxic in one strike.

When daylight starts gathering outside the window, I get up, unpack the groceries, and make myself eggs with tomato and onion, soft in a little butter, with toast on the side. I sit down, eat slowly, and let the first bite settle. For a second, I’m back at a louder table, with plates moving hand to hand, my mother brushing my hair from my face, and my father hearing everything while pretending not to.

When I’m done, I wash the plate, wipe the counter, make coffee, and open the laptop. I look up what supports fetal growth, then I read about protein, iron, folate, calcium, and what to avoid. After that I search safe movement, stretching, and exercises I can do in a rented room. By the time I close the screen, I feel steadier.

Then I go back to the real problem.

Budapest buys time, not safety. Maks still has reach, and men like him don’t lose interest in a problem inside the family, especially not one carrying information that could split the house open. I check my accounts and stare at the numbers. I still have enough money to move. I do not have enough money to move badly.

The next morning, I go to the office like usual. Ferenc gives me a lazy grin and says I look radiant, and I scoff and tell him hunger and bad lighting do strange things to men. He laughs, our manager starts yelling about a customs delay, and I fix the paperwork before lunch.

On the way home, I stop for vitamins and freeze at the sight of a Leonidov spotter near the corner. It’s a driver I know, a man Grigor has used for years when something needed doing quietly.

He looks straight at me.

My heart jumps, and I turn at once, cut down a side street, switch direction two blocks later, and push into a crowded stretch full of trams and evening noise. I don’t look back. By the time I get to my building, I’m breathing too fast and already know the truth.

They found me.

I stop at the hallway mirror. An envelope has been pushed under my door.

I snatch it up, tear it open, and unfold the thick paper.

Inside is one line in Maks’s hand.

Come home before strangers make this harder.

10

ANTON

Three weeks ago

I get back to Moscow with her still in my head, and that irritates me more than the flight, the backlog, or the fact that half my phone is already full of people wanting answers before I’ve taken my coat off.

Sofiya Leonidova should’ve stayed a good memory and a bad decision, but she keeps showing up everywhere.

In the car from the airport, I catch myself thinking about her mouth, the line of her throat, the way she looked against the hotel glass with her hair half wrecked and how her eyes shone when I had my hand between her legs. Then I think about the way she left, and my mood improves just enough to get interesting.

I almost laugh.

A Leonidov woman came into my bed, took what she wanted, and slipped out before dawn like she’d won something.