Page 111 of Bratva Bidder

“None of us are matches.” I keep the sentence short, factual, easier to hold together that way. “The registry search starts tomorrow. There’s nothing more to do here tonight.”

“I’ll meet you there,” he says immediately.

I don’t confirm. I don’t argue. I simply end the call, slide the phone into my pocket, and turn to Lev.

“Help me get their things,” I tell him, forcing each word through the tightness in my throat.

He nods—no questions, no platitudes—and moves to gather Nikolai’s small bag while I crouch to tell Mila it’s time to go. She smiles, thinking this means bedtime stories and hot chocolate, and I paste on a smile to match because she deserves that illusion for one more night.

Inside, though, the disappointment coils and pulls, heavy and relentless—we are his parents, his blood, and still we are useless.

I keep my expression calm as I lift Nikolai’s hoodie over his head, gently guiding his arms through the sleeves. He’s still groggy, barely aware we’re moving. Mila hums as she skips around the room, clutching the stack of coloring sheets the nurse gave her, and I nod and smile and pack methodically—because the alternative is shattering right here in front of them.

I won’t let them see that.

Not tonight.

Lev carries the heavier bag, his massive presence strangely quiet. He hasn’t asked questions, hasn’t offered sympathy. Just shadows me like he knows I’m only one deep breath away from losing it.

I whisper a thank-you to the nurse at the front desk as we leave. She gives me that smile—the one doctors and nurses reserve for parents they know are walking into something bigger than they can fix. It’s not pity. It’s acknowledgment.

I nod back.

Outside, the air is cooler than expected.

Lev opens the rear door of the SUV, and I buckle Nikolai in, smoothing his hair off his forehead. His eyes flutter but don’topen. Mila climbs in on her own, chattering about how she drew a picture of a duck with a crown.

“I think the duck is the boss,” she says.

“Of course she is,” I murmur, kissing her cheek.

I shut the door before my voice cracks.

Lev loads the bags and comes around to the driver’s side. “I’ll take us back. You need anything?”

“No.” I press a hand to my temple. “Just drive.”

The ride is silent, the kind of quiet that hums with everything left unsaid. The city moves past us in blurred streaks of red lights and half-empty sidewalks. The world doesn’t know that a five-year-old in the back seat is waiting on a miracle, and I hate it for that.

By the time we pull into the driveway, the lights are already on. Konstantin’s truck is parked out front, engine still warm. He’s leaning against the porch railing, arms crossed, head bowed like he’s been waiting there for hours instead of minutes.

He straightens the second Lev opens the back door, but he doesn’t rush us. He doesn’t say a word as I carry Mila in, her cheek pressed against my shoulder, or as Lev lifts a half-asleep Nikolai and follows me upstairs. We settle them into their beds in silence, careful hands tucking them in with the kind of reverence you give glass.

Only once both doors are closed and the house is wrapped in hush does Konstantin speak.

“We’ll do everything,” he says softly, meeting my eyes in the dim hallway. “Whatever it takes. Whoever we need to call. I don’t care what it costs. We’re going to save him.”

I nod, but I don’t respond. Not with words. I can’t—not yet.

I retreat to my room.

The silence is thick. Pressing.

Sleep won’t come.

I lie there for what feels like hours, staring at the ceiling, at the shadow of the ceiling fan tracing circles I can’t escape from. My body’s exhausted, but my mind keeps replaying that moment—the doctor’s face, that slow shake of his head. The finality ofnone of you are a match.

At some point, I get up.