Page 135 of Bratva Bidder

“So do I,” I say, stepping closer. “And one of them is lying in a hospital bed right now, running a fever while you run scared.”

His eyes dart to Nadya, then back to me. He’s panicking.

Dmitry.

It has his fingerprints all over it—the quiet pressure, the veiled threat, the way he always targets the softest point.

“Look,” Dr. Levin continues, swallowing, “I don’t want trouble. I didn’t even pack a bag, I’m just?—”

“You’re not leaving,” I interrupt, stepping closer. “You’re coming with us.”

He recoils. “What? No, I told you?—”

“I have a private safe house.” My voice is cold now, measured. “Secure, untraceable. There’s a launch pad and my own security team. You won’t be touched. You’ll do your job and then I’ll get you out of the country. You’ll never hear from any of us again.”

He hesitates, eyes flicking toward Nadya as she approaches. Her presence seems to calm him slightly, like maybe he’s realizing we’re not the monsters he imagined.

“You promise?”

“I don’t make promises,” I say. “But I do keep my word.”

He finally nods, small and jerky.

We start walking back to the car, and I slip my hand into Nadya’s for just a second.

Her voice is quiet when she says, “You think it’s your father?”

I don’t answer immediately. I don’t need to.

Because we both know the answer.

Of course it is.

The warehouse is tucked between a lumber yard and a dry shipping depot on the south edge of the city—half-forgotten industrial stretch that’s useful exactly because no one pays attention to it. On the outside, it’s just rusting metal walls and a dented roller shutter with a number stenciled on in peeling white paint. But inside, I’ve had it rebuilt from the ground up—reinforced concrete core, surveillance blind zones, Faraday mesh on the walls, soundproofed rooms, and an exit tunnel that runs all the way out to the freeway.

“This is where you’ll stay,” I tell Levin as we step inside, the heavy door clanging shut behind us. “For the next few days at least. You’ll be safe here.”

He nods nervously, still clutching his briefcase like it’s a crucifix. I motion for one of the guards to show him to the upper-level room we’ve fitted out for cases like this—sterile but notunfriendly. Small bed, worktable, secure phone line, a private bathroom. Enough to make him feel like he isn’t entirely a prisoner.

I watch him climb the stairs, that jittery look in his eyes like he’s still weighing whether to run.

“He’s going to bolt the second we leave,” I mutter.

Nadya gives me a look. “Not if we stay long enough to make him feel like he’s not alone.”

I exhale sharply. Of course she’s right. That’s the problem—she usually is.

We head up after him, make small talk while he unpacks the few things he brought—medical texts, a laptop, one framed photo of a little girl in a pink sweater. His daughter. The reason he almost walked away. The reason I can’t let him.

Nadya sets a kettle on the tiny electric stove and glances around.

“We’ll need to make it look like he left the country,” she says quietly, standing beside me while the doctor types something on his computer. “Fake boarding pass, forged immigration stamps. Maybe send his car to the airport and have it show up on security footage.”

I nod once, jaw clenched so tight it aches. I hate how right she is. I hate that I need to protect someone like Levin at all. And most of all, I hate that my father’s reach is still longer than mine.

“I should be gutting him by now,” I mutter under my breath.

“Too soon,” she replies calmly, slipping her hand over mine. “And not smart.”