Page 164 of Bratva Bidder

We begin circling each other, slow, measured. Like wolves. Like everything has always been leading to this moment.

“Why?” I demand.

“You mean why him and not you?” he shrugs. “Well…you were next. But we don’t always get what we want.”

His tone is light, almost conversational. My hands itch for my gun. But I want to hear him. I need to.

“I thought,” he continues, “if I could convince him you were the threat, the danger to his legacy, he’d do the dirty work for me. I planted enough doubt. Enough fear. Even hired men to attack the warehouse so he’d think it was a rival move—you trying to sabotage him from within.”

“You…” I feel bile rise. “You manipulated him into thinking I killed Roman.”

He nods. “I thought I could nudge Father into doing the dirty work—make him think you killed Roman…that you’d turned onthe family. Then he’d finish off Nikolai and Mila in revenge. Easy. Almost worked too. Until Nikolai’s condition came to light. That ruined everything.”

“What the fuck do you mean?” I ask.

He sighs, theatrical. “When he found out Nikolai was sick, he insisted on testing me as well. Family first, right?” His mouth curls. “But I didn’t carry the gene.”

My heart slams in my chest.

I narrow my eyes. That’s impossible, unless…

“You’re not his son,” I breathe.

There it is. The truth unspooling between us like wire primed to snap.

“Yes, tragic I know. No Buryakov gene in me. Mother’s little secret finally exposed. The great patriarch realized he’d groomed another man’s bastard while you—hisrealheir—stood in the way.”

I clench my fists. “So you decided to erase us.”

“After everything he put me through, he was going to disown me just because I didn’t have the right blood,” Alexei says, voice trembling with something like fury—or sorrow. “Cast me out, strip everything. I took precautions.” His eyes flick to Dmitry’s lifeless body. “Now the line ends with you. And soon, with your precious children.”

I step closer, every muscle taut. “You’ll never touch them.”

Alexei raises the rifle again, casual as a shepherd lifting a crook. “We’ll see,” he says before firing.

The crack splits the night air. I drop flat, rolling behind an overturned banquet table just as the bullet shreds through the fabric canopy above me. Splinters rain down. I don’t stop. I shove forward on my elbows, draw my gun, and fire back—once, twice—forcing him to duck behind a marble column.

Everything narrows to the thud of my heart, the wet grass beneath me, the phantom heat from the muzzle flash.

I rise and charge.

Alexei fumbles, scrambling to reload, but I’m on him. I tackle him into the ground with a roar, fists slamming into his ribs, his jaw, anywhere I can reach. He grunts, tries to bring the rifle up, but I knock it aside and punch again, knuckles cracking. His lip splits. Blood spatters across my shirt.

“You think you can destroy my family?” I snarl, wrapping my hand around his throat.

He gurgles, eyes bulging.

My back prickles. I sense movements behind me before a hard blow crashes into my side. Pain erupts as I stagger off Alexei, only to find myself facing three of his men, emerging from the darkness like shadows.

I barely lift my guard before the first one slams a boot into my ribs. I grunt, doubling over. Another smashes the butt of a gun across the back of my head. Stars explode in my vision. I hit the ground hard, breath gone, weapon lost.

One grabs my arms. Another pins my legs. Alexei climbs to his feet, panting, wiping blood from his chin.

He spits. “Stupid bastard. You always thought you were better than me.”

“Still am,” I rasp, even as blood fills my mouth.

“You thought you could humiliate me and walk away?”