Page 120 of Bratva Bidder

He stops at the bottom of the stairs, finally turns to face me. “Yeah,” he says. “But you haven’t really trained in the last couple of years.”

I blink. “So?”

“So,” he says, stepping closer, “that means when it comes down to it—when the moment demands it—you have to be able to pull the trigger. Not think about it. Not hesitate. Not wait for someone else to do it.”

My chest tightens. I bite the inside of my cheek, hard enough to feel the sting.

His voice softens just slightly. “If that’s something you don’t want…if you’re not ready for that—I can back off.”

I don’t say anything.

He looks at me a moment longer. “But I’ll rest easier knowing you’ll be fine on your own. That if someone corners you, you won’t freeze.”

I cross my arms. “You think I’d freeze?”

“No,” he says quietly. “I think you’d flinch. And in this world, flinching gets you killed.”

It’s not condescending. It’s not a challenge.

It’s fear.

“So let’s go,” he says.

I blink. “We’re startingright now?”

He doesn’t look back as he opens the front door, just says, “Yes,” like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Of course it is.

We cross the gravel path behind the main house, the sky still silvered with early light. The range is quiet, tucked just beyond the trees. A row of targets stand like silent judges. Everything’s clean, precise. Konstantin’s kind of place.

He unlocks the weapons cabinet without a word and pulls out a compact Glock, checking the magazine like he’s doing it in his sleep.

The click of the slide snapping forward echoes in the early morning stillness.

He holds it out, grip first. “Go on. Show me.”

I take it from him without a word.

The gun isn’t unfamiliar, but it’s been a while. I walk forward to the mark etched into the concrete with faint black paint. My stance comes back to me easily, my body falling into position like it never forgot. Legs braced. Arms steady. Breath in. Sight aligned.

I fire.

The first shot breaks the quiet. I barely hear it.

Then I fire again. And again.

The pattern settles into something automatic—pull, breathe, squeeze—until the magazine clicks empty and I lower the weapon.

I turn my head. He’s standing with his hands in his coat pockets, watching me. His face doesn’t give anything away, but I know him well enough to read the stillness in his posture.

“Well?” I ask.

“You haven’t lost much,” he says after a beat. “But you’re overcompensating in your shoulders. Your hips are too locked.”

He walks toward me slowly, like he’s still deciding something.

I scoff under my breath. “That’s what you’re going to lead with? I just hit five targets.”