Page 132 of Bratva Bidder

I cross my arms, not giving him an inch. “Then explain.”

He exhales, shoulders sagging. “Roman’s death—none of us expected it. My father…he blames Konstantin, but more than that, he needs a target. He needs a story. I’m not here to defend him. I can’t. But I need you to understand—he’s unraveling. And that makes him more dangerous than ever.”

“I already understand that,” I say, voice flat. “What I don’t understand is why you stay at his side.”

Alexei swallows hard. “Because someone has to stand between him and complete ruin. Someone who still remembers the leader he was—before power twisted everything. I thought Roman could do it. Now—” His voice cracks, and he presses a fist to his mouth, composing himself. “Now it’s just me.”

Silence stretches. The lobby clock ticks above us, absurdly loud.

“How’s the little man now?”

“Fever broke around dawn. Cultures pending, antibiotics started. He’s sleeping.” The quick summary steadies me more than the coffee. “Thank you for asking.”

A beat of silence stretches while distant overhead pages echo through the space. He shifts his weight, gaze momentarily dropping to the polished floor as if words are heavier than he’s prepared for.

“My father…” he begins, then sighs, pushing a hand through his hair. “He believes grief earns him leverage. I can’t promise perfect fences, Nadya—Dmitry doesn’t respect lines—but I’ll do what I can to keep him from your door.”

I study him, measuring intent against history, and what I find in his eyes is something raw—not calculation, not threat, but weariness laced with determination. “I appreciate that,” I say. And I mean it. Out of all the Buryakov bloodline, Alexei has always felt like the lone sensible branch, bending where the others break.

“You’re not like your father,” I say.

That surprises him. His eyes flicker, uncertain. “That’s generous.”

“It’s true.”

“I don’t want to be him,” Alexei murmurs. “And I don’t want him anywhere near your children. He’s unpredictable. He acts on instinct, not reason. But I’ll do everything I can to keep him away. I promise you that. The men directly report to me, my father is busy with other things. I’ll make sure they don’t stick around here.”

I nod once, guarded but not cold. There’s a difference between a threat and a man caught in a war he never wanted.

“Thank you,” I say quietly.

He smiles, tired. “Just…take care of them. Of all of you.”

And then he leaves.

I stand in the middle of the lobby for a long while before heading back up. The world is shifting again beneath my feet—but not all of it feels like it’s falling apart.

28

KONSTANTIN

Nikolai’s roomis unusually quiet. The beeping machines are steady, rhythmic. Lev stands by the window, arms folded, while Nadya sits beside the bed, her hand brushing through Nikolai’s damp curls. He’s finally resting, fever broken but not gone, his little body still too warm under the blankets.

There’s a knock at the door.

A nurse peeks her head in. “Mr. Buryakov? The specialist from Belarus just landed. He’s agreed to meet you today, but it has to be in person. He’s on a tight schedule.”

I blink. Right—the geneticist. We pushed for him through every back channel we had, someone who’s supposedly run rare-case marrow donor matches using family legacy markers. The kind of man who can sniff out a long-lost second cousin match with three drops of blood and an outdated record from a rural archive.

The catch? He won’t step foot in a hospital. Paranoia, Lev said. Or ego. Either way, he’s waiting at a private clinic halfway across town.

I shake my head immediately. “I’m not leaving. Not while Dmitry’s men are around.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“That’s taken care of,” Nadya says, too casually.

Both Lev and I turn toward her.