Page 40 of Bratva Bride

Katya closes her laptop with a quiet click. “We should go in light. One or two of us max. Less risk of tripping alarms.”

“I’ll go,” I say.

“I’m not letting you go alone,” Arman says.

“I wasn’t asking,” I say quietly, then sigh. “You know I can do this, Uncle. I’m ready for this.”

“When was the last time you did parkour?”

“Two months ago,” I say. “But it’s basically instinct now.’

He sighs.

“But fine,” I say, reluctantly. “One more. Rifat?”

He gives a nod. “Got your back.”

“Good. Dima, monitor the feeds. Katya, stay mobile in case we need alternate routing.”

Arman exhales, but he doesn’t object again.

I glance at the key card one more time.

Whatever’s in that suite, we’ll find it.

I crouch on the roof of the parking garage opposite Varna Quay, wind tugging at my jacket. Below, the bay glitters black and silver; ahead, the tower rises in mute glass and marble. No street cameras can see the west façade—Dima confirmed it twice—so the climb starts here.

“Elevator logs spoofed,” Dima’s voice murmurs in my ear. “You have a fifteen-minute blind zone. Go.”

I sprint, shoes silent on concrete, and leap the two-meter gap between garage parapet and the hotel’s maintenance balcony. Fingers find the metal rail; I swing, land, roll. Rifat lands a heartbeat later.

“You’re good,” he says.

A narrow fire ladder snakes down three floors. I grab a rung, glide down fast, then drop the last twelve feet, knees bending to take the shock. My boots hit a decorative ledge, half a meter wide, thirty meters long.

Below me, there’s glass. Above me, only a thin slice of moon. I breathe once, then sprint the ledge—one foot in front of theother—until I reach an unlit housekeeping terrace. A sideways vault clears the rail; I tuck, roll, and pop up in a crouch.

Rifat follows, muttering a soft prayer in Georgian. “Next time,” he huffs, “we take the elevator.”

I grin. “Too slow.”

Inside, a service door waits. I jack a twin-lead into the alarm panel; Dima kills the circuit. One beep, then green.

“Door’s yours,” he says.

We slip into a narrow corridor smelling of polish and bleach. Halfway down, a key card reader blinks. I swipe the cloned card—gift from Dima—and the rear entrance to Suite 804 unlocks with a soft click.

We move.

Living area—empty, lights low, curtains drawn. Luxe furniture, untouched glasses on a tray. I cross the room in four silent steps, hop the couch, and slide into the kitchen alcove. Rifat clears the hallway toward the bedroom.

I vault the counter, land light, and check a hidden power strip under the island. Plug in Dima’s repeater—tiny LED pulses once. “Repeater live.”

“Signal good,” Dima confirms.

Hallway now. I plant one palm on the floor, swing around the corner, and slide up to the bedroom door.

The room smells of expensive perfume and fresh linen. A half-packed weekender sits open on the bench; silk scarf, lipstick, burner phone still charging. Closet stands ajar, empty hangers sway as if yanked moments ago.