Page 124 of Bratva Bidder

Four days of silence from Dmitry. Four days of driving myself insane pacing this house like a caged animal while my father plays whatever twisted game he’s orchestrated from the shadows. I’ve turned every theory inside out, reviewed every file, every drop report, every call intercepted. And yet…nothing.

I monitor cameras, refresh encrypted messages, review patrol logs, refresh them again—anything to find proof that my father is on the move—yet the city stays maddeningly calm.

I’m standing in the study, the same CCTV footage from two nights ago replaying for the third time, my eyes scanning the corners as if I’ve missed something. I haven’t. But that doesn’t stop me.

The door creaks open. Nadya’s voice cuts through the fog in my skull.

She’s dressed for the morning run to the hospital—jeans, loose sweater, hair pulled back with that careless grace that always looks deliberate on her. Mila’s chatter drifts up from the kitchen, and Nikolai’s softer voice follows, punctuated by the clink of cereal bowls.

“Come eat,” she says, gentler than I deserve. “We made waffles.”

“I’m not hungry.” I don’t look up from the blinking cursor crawling across the patrol grid.

“You’re killing yourself thinking about your father,” she says, stepping closer, voice still calm but carrying the faintest edge of worry. “You’ve slept maybe ten hours in four days.”

“You don’t know him,” I reply, sharper than intended, though part of me admits the words taste like a lie; she knows enough and probably too much already.

She watches me for a heartbeat longer, as if weighing whether to push. She doesn’t. She only nods, almost imperceptible, and turns away without another word. Her footsteps fade, and the empty doorway is louder than any argument we could have had.

The moment hangs just long enough to ache, then Lev fills the space, closing the office door behind him. He’s stripped of his coat, sleeves rolled, dust of road grit on boots, fresh off the run I sent him on.

“Well?” I ask, pushing the laptop aside. “The Queens drop?”

He lowers into the chair opposite my desk, leaning forward, forearms braced on his knees. “Nothing but routine,” he says.

I breathe out, slow, try to let the tension bleed away, but it doesn’t go far. “Four days,” I mutter, rubbing the heel of mypalm against my temple. “Four days and Dmitry hasn’t so much as scuffed a sidewalk. What the hell is he planning?”

Lev shakes his head, exhaling. “He’s too quiet. Even Roman’s funeral arrangements. There’s nothing.”

“A Bratva prince dies and the city hears nothing?” I hiss, pacing behind the desk now, rubbing at a knot in the back of my neck that won’t break loose. “Either Dmitry’s trying to finish the story before the funeral starts, or he’s already found another angle to bleed me.”

Lev’s brow furrows, and I add, “He’s not smuggling a corpse across state lines. So Roman’s still here, somewhere quiet.”

“Buried already?” Lev asks, though we both know Dmitry is theatrical; he’d never waste a chance to eulogize his own tragedy in front of the cameras.

“No,” I answer. “He wants an audience when he places blame.” I stop pacing, drop into my chair, the leather creaking under the sudden collapse of tension. “What the hell is he up to?”

Lev doesn’t answer because there is no answer—not yet. The tablet on my desk remains stubbornly green across every safe-house marker, every patrol route. The silence in the data mocks me.

Lev and I are still hovering over the map when tiny footsteps patter across the hardwood. The door swings wider, and Mila steps into the office in a pair of rainbow sneakers that don’t match the rest of her outfit, her chin lifted with the seriousness only a five-year-old can muster.

“Mommy said to say goodbye,” she announces, hands clasped behind her back.

My pulse jolts hard enough to rattle. I set the tablet down, forcing a steady breath. “Goodbye?” I ask, crouching so we’re eye level. “Where are you going, sweetheart?”

“To the hospital. Mommy says it’s just to see the nice doctor and take Nikolai’s heart pictures.” She says it all in one rush, proud that she remembered the details, even prouder of the plastic tiger peeking from her little backpack.

The words punch straight through the fog of patrol routes and contingency grids. I’ve spent four days bracing for my father’s strike, and in the process I’ve let Nadya shoulder every mile of highway between our door and that pediatric ward. The realization tastes like rust.

I stand, glance at Lev, then back at Mila. “Tell Mommy I’m coming with you.”

Mila’s eyes brighten. She spins on her heel and runs off, yelling down the hall that Papa’s getting his coat.

Nadya appears in the doorway, keys in one hand, tablet of scan appointments in the other. There’s surprise in her eyes, quickly smoothed over. “Are you sure? It’s routine—just an echo and labs. They’re not planning anything invasive today.”

I shrug into my jacket, ignoring the ache that tightens across my shoulders when I fasten the last button. “Routine for them doesn’t mean it should happen without me.”

She studies me, weighing the sincerity, maybe expecting me to change my mind at the last second. I don’t.