Page 6 of Bratva Bidder
I know this man.
He’s the father of my children.
2
KONSTANTIN
“You don’t thinkthis is insane?”
Lev shifts in the passenger seat, glancing at me like I’ve lost whatever pieces of my mind he thought I had left.
He’s been with me for eight years. Loyal, flexible, knows when to shut up—but this time he just can’t help himself.
“I mean,” he adds, “I’ve seen you walk into gunfire calmer than this.”
I adjust the cuffs of my shirt. “Gunfire’s predictable.”
Lev snorts. “And buying a woman at an underground auction run by Bratva washouts isn’t?”
“I’m not buying a woman,” I say. “I’m buying leverage.”
He gives me a look. “You sound like your father.”
I let that hang in the air. It’s not a compliment.
The blacked-out car rolls down Olympic Boulevard, the city lights slashing through the tinted windows like slow strobes. Downtown Los Angeles is always alive—pulsing, breathing,hiding monsters in its bones. I know them. I’ve done business with them. I’ve burned some of them down.
“Do you know how many women will be there tonight?” Lev continues. “Dozens. You could have any of them. Or none of them. And yet…”
“And yet,” I repeat, voice low.
He sighs like he wants to say more but thinks better of it. We’ve known each other too long to pretend he doesn’t understand. He does. He just doesn’t like it.
Neither do I.
I’m not the type to show up at an auction, let alone buy a woman like property. I’ve seen what that does to men. It erodes the parts of them that still resemble anything human. But tonight’s not about pleasure or dominance.
The streets outside the car are bathed in sodium light, city grime sparkling like glass shards on pavement. We’re five minutes from the auction’s location—an old theater buried beneath layers of legal gray zones and armed silence. The Buryakov-aligned groups use it for transactions like this. Rare offerings. Political reshuffling. Acquisitions in satin and heels.
I’m not interested in most of the lots.
I came for one.
“I still think this is fucking insane,” Lev mutters as he flips the visor down, even though there’s no sun and no reason. That’s how I know he’s nervous—his tells are small, like mine.
“You don’t have to come in,” I say.
He snorts. “That’s not going to happen. I come everywhere with you.”
I chuckle. “I can handle myself in there, Lev.”
“That I know,” he says.
“The girl on auction tonight, that’s his daughter, right?” I ask.
“Yes, Nadya. Kept out of sight. Raised quiet. Some whispers say she used to be engaged to a high-tier bratishka, but it fell through after Makarov pissed off the wrong people. Word is, she’s not here by choice.”
That settles something in my gut.
