Page 142 of Bratva Bidder

Not for my son.

Not for any of us.

It’s late, and the house is too quiet.

The kind of quiet that clings to the walls and makes your pulse throb louder than footsteps on tile. I should be sleeping—I told Lev I would, after checking on security protocols again—but I couldn’t.

I leave the house a little after four-thirty, taking the back staircase so Lev won’t hear the front door and worry Nadya with another report of my insomnia. The kids are finally asleep—Mila curled against Nadya’s side, Nikolai propped on extra pillows so he can breathe. I watch them for a moment longer than I should,knowing every step I take tonight could be the one that keeps them safe—or ruins us completely.

Downstairs, the garage is dark except for the green glow of the battery tenders. I ignore the sedans and open the keyed lockbox on the wall. Inside is a single fob—matte black, unmarked. The armored personnel carrier we use when shipments go through contested territory sits under a tarp at the far end. It isn’t meant for city streets or single-man crusades, but I’m done waiting for perfect circumstances.

By the time I roll the big engine out, dawn is a thin silver line over the East River. I punch the throttle, feeling eight tons of reinforced steel surge forward, tires snarling against pavement. My head is clear in the way it only gets when the line between survival and catastrophe is needle-thin—every breath measured, every heartbeat loud.

The phone buzzes on the console. Nadya.

I let it ring twice, then thumb the answer button on the steering spoke.

“Konstantin—where are you? I’ve been looking for you. I thought I heard something and then you aren’t in your bed.”

“I’m a little busy,” I say, keeping my eyes on the empty avenue that funnels straight toward the bridge.

There’s a pause, and when she speaks again I can hear that she’s standing up, probably pacing, the floorboards creaking in my mind’s ear. “Busy doing what? Your voice—Konstantin, what are you doing?”

I swallow, jaw tight. “I’m not going to sit back and watch everything fall apart.”

“Tell me where you are right now.” Panic edges into her words, brittle and rising.

The city blurs past; traffic lights flip to green as if the streets understand I’m not stopping. “Making sure Dmitry finally hears me,” I say. Then I end the call before her protest can reach my ears, thumb lingering on the red icon a fraction too long.

The crash still echoes in my bones as I step through the shattered front doors, boots grinding over slivers of stained glass and bits of plaster. Smoke from detonated airbags clings to my clothes; the metallic tang of my own blood rides the back of my throat. I follow the marble corridor by memory—past ancestral portraits lit only by wall sconces, past the empty alcove where my mother’s violin once rested. A lone chandelier flickers overhead, crystals chiming as if the house itself trembles.

The armored truck gives one last groan before dying in the marble courtyard, steam billowing from the hood. I kick the heavy door open, metal screeching on its hinges, and step into blinding floodlights.

Three guards sprint from the portico, rifles up. My ears are still ringing, but my sights are clear. I fire a short burst from the carbine yanked from the back seat—rubber rounds, center mass. Two drop hard, skidding across polished stone. The third regains balance, squeezes off a scatter of panicked shots that chew white chips out of the fountain behind me.

I charge before he can reset, slam him against a pillar, wrench the rifle free, and butt-stroke his helmet. He slides to the ground, out cold. I let the rifle dangle from its sling and push through the double doors, shoulders heaving, pulse thundering against my ribs.

Inside, the foyer is chaos—staff scrambling, more guards barking orders. A heavyset man steps from an archway wielding a pump-action shotgun. I pivot left, grab a decorative spear from a wall display, and hurl it low, pinning his ankle to the hardwood. He howls, drops the weapon. I keep moving. No time to finish him.

I know this house better than any place on earth—each corridor, each blind corner. I vault the marble banister, land on the grand staircase, and barrel toward my father’s wing. Footsteps thunder behind me. A guard lunges from the library threshold; I check him with a shoulder, twist his wrist until the gun clatters, then shove him into a glass curio that explodes in a storm of crystal.

The office doors loom ahead, mahogany etched with the Buryakov crescent. Two more men stand post, but hesitation flickers in their eyes—no one expected me alive, let alone charging. One levels a pistol. I fire first—another rubber round, dead-center. He folds. The second drops his weapon and backs away, hands lifted.

“Out,” I snarl, and he bolts like a spooked deer.

I slam my shoulder into the doors. They shudder, resist. A second hit drives one off its hinges, wood splintering inward. I shove through and freeze.

My father is already standing, hands folded behind his back, as if the commotion is an opera he purchased tickets for months ago. The office is dim, only a banker’s lamp burning on the desk.

Blood pounds in my ears. I’m breathing hard, sweat and plaster dust in my eyes. Dmitry regards me, head tilted, a faint gleam of satisfaction curving his mouth.

“You didn’t have to kill half my security,” he says mildly.

“They’re breathing,” I rasp. “Unlike the men you burned alive last night.”

He gestures at the chair opposite his desk. “Sit.”

I stay standing, weapon raised. “If you’re going to shoot me, do it. But you stay the fuck away from my son.”