Page 125 of Bratva Bidder

The drive is short and silent except for Mila’s humming in the back seat, but my mind is loud. Four days, no donor match, the international registry silent, the last specialist’s voicemail stillunanswered. Every kilometer we cover is another reminder that contingency plans won’t matter if our boy runs out of time while I’m busy drawing battle lines with ghosts.

When the hospital comes into view—bright glass facade sparkling under the noon sun—I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. Dmitry’s schemes, Roman’s corpse, the unexploded tension humming through every safe-house marker on my map—they all take a step back.

The cardiology floor smells faintly of antiseptic and lemon polish, and the hum of monitors under the bright noon windows is steady enough that I catch myself counting the beeps as if they might change their rhythm without warning.

Melanie, the head nurse who has shepherded us through every appointment since the diagnosis, greets us at the door with her practiced calm—clipboard tucked to her chest, gentle smile aimed first at Nikolai and then at Mila in her rainbow sneakers. She shepherds the children toward the scale and blood-pressure cuff while Nadya hands over the latest stack of intake forms.

Nikolai sits through the blood draw without a flinch, only a soft hiss when the needle finds the vein; Mila stands on the footstool beside him and narrates the procedure like a junior nurse, earning an indulgent laugh from the nurse. Ultrasound gel, tiny electrodes, and another battery of vials disappear into labeled tubes. The techs move quietly, and I stand useless at the foot of the bed, hands tucked into pockets so tight my knuckles ache, pretending that tension is control.

When the tests are finished, Dr. Halberd asks if we can step into the consult room. Nadya raises her brows at me, and I nod once. Irina settles Mila beside Nikolai on the exam table, producing a box of magnetic tiles that clack together in the quiet;my daughter immediately builds a crooked castle while my son watches, tired but intrigued. Irina promises they’ll be right here when we return.

We follow the doctor out. The consult room is all frosted glass and muted wood grain, sleek in a way meant to soothe families who can afford to be terrified. Halberd folds his hands over the folder. “If we don’t secure a full donor match,” he begins, his tone matter-of-fact but not unkind, “the next line of defense is a haploidentical transplant using one of you, or cord-blood units from the global bank. Both carry higher rejection risk, but the protocols have improved in the last five years. We’d start immunosuppression immediately. Failing that, mechanical assist for the cardiac symptoms buys us time, but it isn’t curative.”

I press two fingers to the bridge of my nose, feel the tension pulse behind my eyes. Nadya’s jaw is set, polite mask barely containing the fear I know too well. I ask about gene-editing trials, CRISPR variants in phase two overseas, anything that doesn’t involve gambling my son’s life on percentages.

As soon as the elevator doors close behind us and we’re finally alone in the hallway, away from the sterile calm of the exam room and the doctor’s even-toned probabilities, Nadya exhales. A long, quiet breath, the kind that feels like letting go of something she’s been holding for far too long. She leans against the wall opposite me, arms crossed loosely over her chest, but her eyes aren’t guarded like they were earlier. They’re tired, yes. But open.

“I keep thinking I should be doing more,” I murmur.

“You’re doing everything,” she says quickly, firmly, like it’s not even a question. “He sees you, you know. Both of them do.”

I glance up at her. She’s not saying it for comfort. She means it.

There’s a kind of silence that follows between us—not awkward, not strained. Just a shared, fragile understanding that neither of us says aloud: we’re in a fight we don’t fully understand, against an enemy we can’t see.

You’re doing better than I ever could,” I say.

She looks at me then, one eyebrow lifting. “You’re joking, right?”

I shake my head. “Not at all.”

“You’re here,” she says simply. “That counts for something.”

There’s a beat of silence between us, the kind that feels like shared breath. It’s strange how war and peace can exist in the same man, the same woman. We’ve been to hell and back, sometimes dragging each other through it. But right now, in this sterile hospital hallway, there’s a truce. And maybe even something like understanding.

“I keep thinking…” she starts, then hesitates.

“What?”

Her voice drops a little. “I keep thinking that if we’d never met again, you’d have never known about him. About them. And I hate how some part of me thought that would protect them.”

My throat tightens, but I don’t let the guilt show. I just reach for her hand, and she lets me take it.

“I’m glad I know,” I say. “Even if it’s killing me.”

We stay like that, side by side in the silence, until the elevator chimes its arrival. She presses the button and leans slightly into me, as if even this small moment of nearness helps steady her.

The elevator doors part, and we step out into the familiar corridor. I’m about to tell her I’ll grab something for the kids from the vending machine when a man rounds the corner, walking fast, head down. I step to the side automatically to avoid a collision, and our shoulders brush.

“Sorry,” I say, instinctively.

The man mutters something under his breath and keeps moving. I barely register his face—shaved head, black hoodie, maybe late thirties—but my eyes drop to his forearm as his sleeve shifts with his motion.

A tattoo.

Three black wolves running in a circle.

My stomach drops. My blood turns to ice. My heart gives one heavy, echoing thud and then speeds up, too fast, too loud.