Page 131 of Bratva Bidder

He’s lying. I know it. I can hear it in the way his voice slips, the way his eyes dart too fast, too often. My father has always been many things—a drunk, a coward, a brute, but never a good liar. And right now, his guilt is practically sweating out of his skin.

“How much did he pay you?” I ask, voice low, but steady.

Pyotr freezes. Just for a breath. Just long enough to tell me everything I need to know.

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stammers, straightening up like that’ll somehow make him more convincing. “I didn’t?—”

But I’m already standing. I don’t even realize I’ve shoved the table until it scrapes loudly across the floor.

“Don’t lie to me, Papa,” I say, the word bitter on my tongue. “You think I can’t tell when you’re lying? I grew up reading your face like a damn manual. You sold us out. You sold Nikolai out.”

“I didn’t mean for anything to happen?—”

“You knew what kind of man Dmitry is. You knew what he’s capable of.”

He opens his mouth again, some excuse forming behind that sagging face, but Konstantin moves before he can get a word out. He grabs Pyotr by the collar, slamming him back into the booth with a force that rattles the table and sends the bottle rolling.

“You stay away from my family,” Konstantin growls, low and quiet, the kind of fury that hums just below the skin. “You ever breathe my son’s name again and I will put you in the ground myself.”

Pyotr sputters, hands trembling, his bravado shriveling into panic. “I—I didn’t know they’d—he just said he wanted to know, that’s all?—”

Konstantin doesn’t let go. He leans in closer, his voice a venomous whisper. “Dmitry never just wants to know. You gave him the keys, and he walked right into my son’s hospital room.”

“I didn’t mean for?—”

“I don’t care what you meant.”

I reach out, fingers brushing Konstantin’s arm. “Let him go,” I say. “He’s not worth it.”

Konstantin holds him another beat. Then another. And finally, with a shove, releases him. Pyotr slumps, coughing, eyes glassy.

“You breathe wrong and I’ll hear about it.”

Pyotr nods, too quickly. He’s pale now, truly shaken. I almost pity him. Almost.

Nikolai is burning up.

The back of my hand presses to his forehead and it’s like touching fire. His breath comes in shallow pants, eyelids fluttering as he stirs and moans in his sleep. Panic grips me like a fist around my throat.

“Konstantin!” I yell, already throwing the covers off, scooping Nikolai into my arms.

The drive to the hospital is a blur of red lights and my frantic whispers in Nikolai’s ear, telling him to hold on, that Mommy’s here, that he’s going to be okay.

We check him in immediately. Blood work. Fever meds. A private room. I don’t let go of his hand for a second. Konstantin stays for a while, pacing, jaw tight, rage simmering beneath the surface. But when the fever stabilizes near dawn, I insist he go home to Mila. “She needs you,” I tell him. “I’ve got this.”

I doze in increments—ten minutes, maybe fifteen—each time jerking awake to the hiss of oxygen or the beep of a blood-pressure cuff inflating. By dawn his fever breaks, sweat beading on his temples, and he finally sleeps deeper, cheeks flushed but cooler to my touch. I don’t dare move; I just sit there listening to the steady rhythm of the heart monitor, letting the certainty of that sound hold me together.

When the first shaft of pale morning light slips between the blinds, I kiss Nikolai’s forehead and step into the hallway to stretch. My back protests, my eyes feel as though they’ve been rubbed with salt, but the worst of the night is over and that is something like relief.

I take the elevator down to the lobby for coffee; the atrium is almost peaceful this early, volunteers wheeling art carts toward the pediatric wing, a janitor buffing the terrazzo floor to a shine no one will notice. I’m waiting for the machine to finish when I sense someone watching. I turn—and there’s Alexei.

He stands near the bank of windows, hands shoved awkwardly into the pockets of a black coat that looks a size too big, eyesshadowed by exhaustion or regret—or both. The last time he was here he arrived behind Dmitry like a silent accomplice, so every instinct in me stiffens.

“I came alone,” he says quickly, raising both palms as though that might lower my guard. “I swear it. I came around yesterday but you guys weren’t here. My father’s men confirmed you came in again last night.”

My coffee finishes with a thin hiss, but I don’t reach for it. My skin crawls. Dmitry’s men are out there, keeping an eye on us. “Why are you really here, Alexei? To spy for your father again? To see if Konstantin snaps?”

Pain flashes across his expression. “No,” he murmurs. “To apologize. And to…to try to explain.”