Page 129 of Bratva Bidder

“I found it in the bookstore downstairs,” Alexei says. “Figured he might like to hear a chapter or two.”

I soften. Despite everything, his simple gesture floors me.

Konstantin gives a small nod. A reluctant one, but it’s there.

Alexei moves to the side of the bed. Nikolai is half-asleep, fever-pale and breathing shallow, but he opens his eyes.

“Hey, kiddo,” Alexei says. “You don’t know me, but I know your dad. He’s my brother.”

Nikolai just watches him.

“Got something for you,” Alexei says. He pulls a chair beside the bed and opens the book. I sit on the couch near the window, watching as he starts to read.

“On the third day of flying, Kieran finally saw the edge of the world…”

Nikolai’s gaze is glued to the page, his small hand inching toward the edge of the bed where Alexei rests his arm. His breathing evens out just a little. The sunlight catches in the gold strands of his hair, and for a moment, there’s nothing but the story.

When Alexei reaches the end of the chapter, Nikolai shifts, whispering, “Can you stay a little longer?”

Alexei’s voice goes quiet. “Yeah. I can stay.”

I watch Konstantin pace a tight circle beside Nikolai’s bed, one hand raking through his hair, the other pressed hard to the small of his back as if he can physically hold himself together by force of will alone. He’s been pacing since Alexei left.

“How did he even find out?” he mutters, more to the wall than to me. The words sound ragged, pulled from somewhere deep and bruised.

I swallow, the answer hanging on the tip of my tongue but refusing to come out. There’s only one weak link,I think, and the thought tastes bitter. I don’t say it aloud. Not now. Not with thechildren watching, not with Irina still standing pale and shaken in the corner.

Instead, I cross to Mila, crouch, and press a kiss to her forehead. “Everything’s fine,” I whisper. My voice feels too thin, almost frayed, but I manage a smile.

The ride back is mostly quiet, but not the peaceful kind. It’s the kind where your thoughts start to get loud in your head, where silence becomes pressure, not relief. Mila sits beside me in the back seat, her tiny legs swinging as she hums a tune under her breath, still blissfully unaware of the tension curling inside my chest. Nikolai leans against her, tired from the hospital visit, his small frame pressed into her side like a shadow that clings too tight.

Konstantin doesn’t say much from the front. His hand grips the steering wheel tighter than necessary, knuckles white, the muscle in his jaw ticking now and then. I know he’s still thinking about the hospital, about Dmitry.

Later, when the children are asleep and safe under Irina’s watchful eye, we pull away from the curb, the house shrinking in the rearview mirror until only the porch light remains, a lone glow against the deepening afternoon. Streetlamps haven’t flicked on yet, but the sky has that dull, gray-blue cast that always makes the city feel colder than it is. Konstantin guides the SUV toward the bridge, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming an irregular rhythm against his thigh. I recognize the pattern—planning, recalculating, second-guessing—a mind refusing to rest because resting feels like surrender.

A memory of Dmitry’s hand on Nikolai’s knee flashes, sour and vivid. I push it down, focusing on the road stretching ahead, on the conversation that’s been chewing at me since we left the ward.

“Have you thought,” I begin, keeping my voice even, “about moving him to a different hospital? Somewhere Dmitry’s reach isn’t so immediate?”

Konstantin’s jaw flexes. “I thought about it the moment he walked into that room.”

“And?”

“It won’t solve the problem,” he says, eyes fixed on the traffic flow as we merge. “It buys us a day—maybe two—before he digs up the new address. And we’d lose the team that already knows Nikolai’s charts better than they know their spouses’ birthdays.”

I nod because I’ve done the math too and reached the same grim equation. “You’re right. Too risky, too little gain.”

He glances at me, the corner of his mouth tightening. “I hate that you’re right about that.”

“So do I,” I admit. “But we can tighten the rotation, screen the staff. Maybe leverage Irina’s connections for off-hours labs.” I pause, then add, “He’s Dmitry Buryakov, but even he can’t bribe every nurse on the eastern seaboard overnight.”

Konstantin exhales through his nose. “We’ll do it. I’ll have Lev vet the night shift personally.”

I study his profile—the hard lines carved deeper these last four days, the silent strain of a father trying to outmaneuver a man who deals in inevitabilities. “Just promise me,” I say softly, “thatwhile you’re protecting us from him, you don’t forget Nikolai still needsyou—not the soldier, not the strategist. You.”

He doesn’t answer right away. The city slides past in muted streaks. Then he nods, a single, deliberate dip of his head. “I promise,” he says, and I believe him even if I know how heavy that promise is.

We leave the bridge behind and enter the industrial fringe where the streets grow narrower and the signage more discreet. The bar squats at the end of a block of dented roll-up doors and faded murals. A blue neon beer sign sputters in the grimy window, casting shuddering light onto the cracked sidewalk.