Page 117 of Bratva Bidder
He looks uncomfortable. “I didn’t know she mattered until tonight.”
I don’t respond. Just turn and walk out. Lev follows.
I take the long way to the bar, slide onto a barstool, nod at the bartender—one I don’t recognize—and ask for a rye.
Glass hits wood. I drink.
The music’s low here—different energy from the rest of the floor. Dim. Watchful.
The alcohol’s warm going down, but it doesn’t touch the cold inside me.
Sergei’s face flashes behind my eyes. The blood. The way his body was twisted on the warehouse floor like they didn’t even bother to stage it with respect. I thought he was one of mine—loyal, solid. Now he’s gone.
My grip tightens on the glass.
And then there’s Nikolai. My son. My blood. Every call from the hospital lately sounds more like a countdown.No match yet, still checking the international database, his heart is strong for now—but.Always a fucking but.
He’s five. He sleeps with a stuffed tiger. He hums in his sleep. He doesn’t deserve this, any of this, and yet I can’t help but think that he has inherited my sins.
I sip the drink and try to quiet the thrum of tension crawling under my skin.
That’s when I see him.
Alexei.
Standing near the lounge entrance, trying—and failing—to look inconspicuous. He spots me the same moment I spot him.
He walks over, sheepish. “Hey.”
I lift a brow. “What are you doing here?”
He offers a small, apologetic smile. “Well…”
Before he can say more, I feel a hand land on my shoulder.
Familiar.
Unwelcome.
“Konstaaaantiiiin,” Roman slurs behind me, dragging out the name like a fucking joke. I smell whiskey and expensive cologne and pure arrogance.
I don’t turn. “Let go of me.”
But he doesn’t. His fingers tighten, casual in that annoying way that’s meant to provoke.
Alexei steps in immediately. “Roman—come on, maybe not tonight.”
Roman scoffs, ignoring him. “What’s gotten your panties in a bunch, little brother?” he says, leaning in, breath hot and foul. You look like someone pissed in your whiskey. Or did one of your little pets die?”
That’s it.
That’s it.
I grab him by the collar and slam his head into the edge of the bar with one hard, brutal crack. His body jolts, drink spilling from someone nearby, voices gasping. The music stumbles, just slightly, as heads turn.
Blood spills down his temple in a slow, dark line.
“I’m going to kill you,” I tell him, voice low and lethal, pinning him there, one hand twisted in his shirt.
