Page 144 of Bratva Bidder

He smiles—an echo of the boy he might once have been. “We all owe someone something, Konstantin. Let me pay mine.”

In the stillness I hear my own heartbeat, feel the knotted chain of our family history tighten—and, impossibly, loosen—as if the decision has already been made. For Nikolai. For the son who carries my blood and none of my sins. I breathe out slowly, the weight of centuries pressing on my lungs.

“We do this my way,” I say at last, voice shaking. “My doctors, my schedule, my security. You disappear when it’s done.”

Dmitry nods, relief flickering like candlelight before he extinguishes it. “As you wish.”

Outside, sirens wail distantly, called by someone who heard the gate explode. Inside, the gun between us remains untouched—silent witness to a truce neither of us ever imagined.

And for the first time since the fever began, hope feels heavier than fear.

32

NADYA

I’ve been lyingin bed for hours, eyes wide open in the dark, the silence so heavy it wraps around my chest like wire. The house is quiet—too quiet—and the longer the minutes stretch, the more jagged they feel against my skin. My hand rests on the empty side of the bed, tracing the cold sheets where he should be. It’s long past midnight.

I try not to imagine where he is. Try not to let my mind replay the flash of fire, the blast echoing through the warehouse. We barely made it out. We got Levin out. But we almost didn’t. And now he’s gone again—without a word.

The floor creaks.

My heart leaps.

By the time I get to the hallway, I see him.

Konstantin stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame like his bones barely want to hold him up. His shirt is torn. There’s a gash along his jaw, dried blood crusted over his eyebrow. His knuckles are raw, his eyes shadowed and dark.

I cross the space between us and throw my arms around his neck, burying myself into him, into the only place that’s ever felt like home. He lets out a soft breath—more of a shudder—before folding into me. His arms come around me slowly, tightly, like he’s afraid I might disappear if he doesn’t hold on hard enough.

“Where were you?” I whisper into his collarbone, my voice cracking under the weight of the question I swore I wouldn’t ask.

He doesn’t answer right away, and I don’t press. I can feel his heart pounding against my chest. I can smell smoke in his hair, the faint sting of gunpowder still clinging to his skin.

I tighten my arms. I don’t want to let go.

Because in this moment, all the anger, all the fear, all the questions—they don’t matter. I love him. God help me, I love him more than I’ve ever let myself admit.

I guide him into the en suite, sit him on the closed toilet lid, and flick on the bright vanity light. The room shrinks around the two of us—white tile, steamed mirror, the faint scent of antiseptic from the first aid kit I found under the sink. His shoulders sag the moment he exhales, as though the effort of staying upright in front of the world has finally run its course and I’m the only witness allowed to see the collapse.

A thin trail of dried blood snakes from his hairline down to the corner of his mouth. I wet a cotton pad with peroxide that makes a slight hissing sound in the hush. He winces when I dab the gash under his brow.

“Tell me,” I whisper, not because I’m demanding answers but because the silence feels like pressure on an already fractured bone.

He keeps his eyes on the faucet—refusing to meet mine—until the next sting from the antiseptic forces them shut. “I went to him.” His voice is hoarse, scraped raw by smoke or by everything he’s swallowed tonight. “Drove the truck straight through the gate.”

My hand stills for a heartbeat. “Dmitry.”

Of course he did, I think, but I don’t say it. I rinse the cloth, the water running red then pink then clear.

“He had a gun on the desk,” Konstantin continues. “Pointed it, then put it down.” The disbelief flickers across his face again—as if, even now, he’s not convinced it truly happened. “And then he said he’s a match. For Nikolai.”

The words lodge in the center of my chest, equal parts hope and dread. “A match? You mean?—”

“His HLA profile. He ran it himself.” A mirthless laugh escapes him.

I press a fresh gauze pad to his brow, trying to keep my hands from shaking. “He wants to donate?”

“He offered to.” Konstantin’s mouth twists, as if tasting something bitter. “Said he’s tired of burying Buryakov sons.”