Page 15 of Bratva Bidder

Lev’s expression hardens just enough. “Kirov. Former Spetsnaz. Dmitry’s enforcer until Konstantin took over his own operation. Now he floats between jobs—whatever blood needs spilling.”

“He looks like he enjoys it.”

“He does.”

We walk past, and I do everything I can not to shudder under the weight of Kirov’s stare.

But I fail—a shiver rips through me, cold and fast. I press my hands into my jacket pockets and focus on the end of the hall, heart pounding just a little too fast.

We round the final corner, and I see them before they see me.

The corridor opens into a private foyer near the main exit, quiet and gilded, with a tall mirror on one wall and polished brass fixtures that gleam under soft white light. A cluster of men standnear the doorway, their heads bent slightly as if caught mid-discussion.

My father is among them, of course.

He’s speaking in low, urgent tones to Konstantin, who listens with that same unreadable stillness I saw from the balcony—hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, face carved from stone. Konstantin doesn’t nod. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t give my father the dignity of a response.

A few others linger nearby—legal muscle in expensive suits, the kind of men who handle contracts and quiet bloodstains alike. One of them is holding a sleek leather folio, papers already laid out.

Lev slows beside me, his voice low. “This is the formal part. The binding.”

Konstantin lifts his head slightly when I enter. His eyes sweep over me. Not cruelly. Just thoroughly.

Pyotr turns, catching sight of me too, and there’s a flicker of something on his face—approval, maybe. Or relief. Like he’s already patting himself on the back for surviving this day.

I ignore him.

Lev guides me to the table, gestures to the document with a pen already waiting.

“You’ll need to sign,” he says gently. “Bottom right. Three pages in.”

I stare at the paper like it might explode.

This moment.

This signature.

This is where I give up my name.

My gut twists. I’m not afraid of men like Pyotr. Not even men like Kirov. But this?

Signing this makes it real. Binding. Irreversible. My fingers twitch at my sides.

Don’t show it. Don’t let them see.

I pick up the pen.

My name looks small when I write it.

Nadezhda Makarova.

I don’t look up when I finish. I don’t let myself meet anyone’s gaze. I simply set the pen down, step back, and clasp my hands behind me.

Konstantin reaches for the pen next. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t so much as glance at the lines before signing with steady, practiced precision.

And I watch him the entire time.

Something burns in my chest—not anger exactly, not grief either. Something caught between a bruise and a scar. I can’t tell if I’m relieved he doesn’t remember me or devastated that our night together meant so little to him.