Page 104 of Bratva Bidder

Konstantin crouches beside us, resting a hand gently on her back. She turns and loops her arms around his neck without hesitation.

He doesn’t say anything. Just closes his eyes and lets her hold him. Like he needs it more than oxygen. I watch the way his fingers curl into her shirt. How tightly he clings. The way his throat bobs like he’s fighting something down.

He thinks he’s failing them.

And maybe I should say something to comfort him. Reassure him.

But I’m too raw. Too wrecked.

“Where’s Kolya?” Mila asks.

“He’s still finishing his drawings,” I lie, brushing her hair off her forehead.

“Will he get a sticker too?”

I smile. It feels fragile. “I’m sure he will.”

She plops back onto the bench, content with her lollipop and her sticker sheet, completely oblivious to the storm swirling just outside her tiny orbit.

“I can take her for a walk around the courtyard,” Konstantin offers, standing.

I glance up, surprised. “You don’t have to.”

“I need to move,” he says. “I can’t sit here and wait.”

I hesitate, then nod. “Ten minutes,” I say softly. “They’ll be calling us soon.”

22

KONSTANTIN

The courtyard is quiet,save for the low hum of traffic beyond the gates and the occasional birdsong that breaks through the gray morning light. It’s the kind of space meant to be calming—sterile planters, a manicured lawn, benches that have never seen real weather. But even here, with Mila’s small hand curled around mine and her voice bright in the chill air, the weight on my chest refuses to ease.

“See that one?” she says, pointing to a cluster of droopy flowers near the bench. “That’s a sad flower. It looks like it needs juice.”

“Juice?” I arch a brow.

She nods seriously. “Apple juice. It helps me when I’m tired. Maybe it helps flowers too.”

I bite back a smile. “You might be onto something,zvezdochka.”

She releases my hand and bolts forward to kneel beside the bush, whispering to it like she’s sharing state secrets. I let her talk to the petals and pretend for a minute longer that everything’s okay.

That my son isn’t sick. That I’m not the reason.

That my world isn’t held together by threads, unraveling one by one.

Mila jumps up again. “Okay, I fixed it. I said something nice and gave it pretend juice. It smiled.”

“Of course it did.”

We keep walking. A few nurses pass us, one smiling warmly at Mila. She gives them a shy wave, then squeezes my hand again.

“Are you sad?” she asks suddenly.

I blink. “What makes you think that?”

“Because your face is doing that thing again. Like you ate a lemon and didn’t like it.”