Page 122 of Bratva Bidder

“What doyou mean Roman’s dead?”

The words leave my mouth before I can even register the weight of them. They sound stupid, slow. Like I’m the last person to catch up.

Lev’s expression is grim, eyes unreadable in the half-light. “He was shot outside a club. Downtown. Three rounds. One to the head.”

My hands curl into fists at my sides. “Which club?”

“Velour.”

“He was alone?” I ask, voice low now, calculating.

“That’s what they’re saying. He stepped out to take a piss, never came back. Security found his body fifteen minutes later.”

I shake my head slowly, tension winding through my chest like barbed wire. “He wasn’t alone,” I say, more to myself than to them. “No way Roman would step out without someone watching his back unless he believed it was safe.”

Nadya’s voice is soft but direct beside me. “How do you know?”

I turn toward her, and for a moment I just look at her—this woman who sees too much and still stands close. “Because Roman was many things—reckless, arrogant, sometimes too sure of himself—but he wasn’t naive. Not when it came to staying alive.” I pause, then add, “Someone either lured him or drugged him. Either way, it was a setup.”

Lev shifts uncomfortably, but he doesn’t disagree.

Nadya stays quiet for a beat, clearly trying to put the pieces together, eyes scanning both our faces. But I’m not in the mood to explain everything—not when I already feel the blood start to thrum louder in my ears.

“This changes things,” I say, mostly to myself. But it’s loud enough for them to hear.

“What’s going on?” Nadya asks, brows pinched with concern.

I turn toward her, jaw tight. “Dmitry is going to blame me.”

She looks stunned. “What? Why would he?—”

“He doesn’t need proof,” I cut in. “He just needs an excuse to start a war, and now he’s got one.”

When we get back to the main house, I say, “Nadya, go check on the children.”

She pauses, lips parting slightly as if to respond—but she doesn’t. She just stands there, eyes narrowing by a fraction, a glint of something flickering through her expression before it’s gone. Disappointment. Hurt. She thinks I’m pushing her away—and maybe I am. Not because I want to, but because I need a moment to think without her eyes on me, without her fear andquestions clouding what comes next. I watch as she nods, barely, and turns around without a word, disappearing down the hall.

I don’t let myself follow her with my gaze. I can’t afford to.

Lev’s already by the door when I reach for my coat. He doesn’t ask where we’re going—he never does.

Once we’re a few steps away from the house, he glances at me, sidelong, his voice low.

“You didn’t…” He trails off, the implication thick in the space between us.

I stop, letting the question hang. The air is damp, the kind that smells like asphalt and wet leaves. My hands ball into fists at my sides, and I don’t turn to look at him when I speak.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to imply,” I say evenly. “But I’m not fucking stupid.”

Lev exhales like he’s been holding something in for hours. “I know. It’s just, everything’s a mess. It’s hard to know who’s pulling which string anymore.”

“I’m aware,” I say. And I am. Roman’s death didn’t happen in a vacuum. Someone moved the pieces. The only question is who benefits most from the chaos.

Lev walks a little faster to match my stride. “You think Dmitry’s already plotting?”

“I’d bet my life on it,” I reply. “And he’s counting on me to react without thinking.”

He’s quiet for a moment before muttering, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”