Page 167 of Bratva Bidder

The wind blowshard through the cemetery, stripping leaves off the tall trees that border the plot. There are no mourners today. Just us.

Two fresh graves. Two names etched into the granite.

Irina Valenkova

Lev Aslanov

I stand beside Konstantin, my hand slipping into his. He’s leaning heavily on a cane, the weight of the last two weeks etched into every line of his body. The bruises on his face have faded from black to green. The gash across his shoulder is healing, but he still winces when he turns too fast. He hasn’t said much since we buried Lev and Irina.

I don’t blame him.

They weren’t just our people. They were family. Irina—who watched over my children like they were her own. Who stood by me when I wanted to give up. Lev—who took a bullet to shield us. Who died bleeding at our feet.

Alexei’s plan worked. I can see that clearly now.

He fractured the Buryakov Bratva in a single night, cut Konstantin’s support in half, and fed the rest of the world a story so easy to swallow that it spread like a sickness: Konstantin killed his own father to seize control, Konstantin staged an ambush that wiped out potential backers so he could rise without rivals, Konstantin let innocent guests die because power means more to him than blood.

The market is alive with that rumor, and each day the story mutates, gaining new details, folding in fresh lies. And every time we answer a call it’s only to hear another ally say they can no longer stand with us until the smoke clears, which is a polite way of saying they believe the worst or at least fear it might be true.

We’re down to a skeleton guard crew, a safe house Konstantin trusts because he built it himself, and three cars we can move without notice; everything else—warehouses, accounts, contracts—has either frozen or split to Alexei’s side.

Nikolai is gone and the trail is cold. No cameras caught the vehicle that took him, none of the old favors Konstantin called in produced even a whisper, and every time I lie down to sleep I see my little boy’s face, frightened and pale, and I hear the silence that fell after they dragged him away, and I feel the hollow echo of Irina’s blood cooling on my hands.

Alexei and his mother vanished the same night, their phones dead, their penthouse empty, their yacht missing from the marina. They slipped through cracks Konstantin didn’t even know existed.

Konstantin shifts beside me, drawing a careful breath that I know still hurts, and I turn from the graves to face him. The stitches at his hairline catch a bit of the gray winter light, and the cane is a necessity until the shattered bone in his knee heals enough for him to stand without it. His eyes meet mine.

“I’m going to kill him,” I say, my voice level, no tremor, no need to raise the volume in this quiet place.

Konstantin nods once, not surprised, not shocked, only resolute, because he sees the same fire in me that he feels in himself. We’ve moved past the stage where one of us tries to protect the other from the darkness, past the stage where words likerevengeorjusticesound dramatic, because those words are now the only plan we have.

He reaches over, touches my arm, his hand firm and warm even through the chill. We stand in silence with the wind skimming across the graves, the cemetery empty except for us and the memories that keep replaying whether we want them or not.

Konstantin taps his cane against the ground twice, a small habit he’s formed when the pain spikes, and I slip my arm around his waist, steadying him though he does not ask.

The past is a wound that will not close, the present is ash and ruin, and the future is a hunt with no guarantee of survival. Yet neither of us wavers, because standing still is not an option, and surrender died the night Alexei tore our world apart.

“He took our son.” My throat tightens. “He tore our family apart. He killed Lev. He killed Irina. And he made you look like a traitor in front of the whole world.”

No answer.

“I don’t care if we have no allies left. I don’t care if the entire Bratva is hunting us. I will cut him down with my own hands.”

Silence again.

Then, finally, Konstantin speaks. “We’ll do it together.”

The wind picks up again. Somewhere in the distance, a metal gate creaks against the stone wall.

I crouch down in front of the graves. Brush off some dried leaves from Irina’s headstone. I don’t say anything. I don’t know what to say. What words are left? What comfort can I offer the dead?

I press my fingers against the granite. It’s cold. Unmoving. Final.

We failed them.

When I stand, Konstantin is still staring down at the names like he can’t quite believe they’re real.

“Do you ever feel like we were just one step too slow?” I ask.

He nods. “Every day. But we’ll catch up to him soon enough. And when we do, Alexei will regret he was ever born.”

I turn to look at Konstantin, at the wounded, proud man I’ve come to love, and I see him for what he is, what his father saw before he died, before it was too late to rectify his mistakes.

“Let’s go,” he says, turning away. “We’ve got work to do.”

To be continued...