Page 30 of Bratva Bidder

Before anything else can be said, another ripple sweeps through the rooftop. I follow the turn of heads, and then I see him.

I don’t recognize him immediately, but the way the air shifts around him, the way the conversations falter into hushed murmurs, makes it clear that whoever he is—he matters.

I glance at Alexei, searching for some kind of clue, and sure enough, he straightens just slightly and inclines his head politely.

“Father,” Alexei says smoothly, his voice respectful but edged with something I can’t quite name.

Father?

I turn back to the other man. Older. Taller. The same ruthless cut of Konstantin’s features, but colder. Like someone took whatever was human inside him and sanded it down until nothing but bone remained.

Shit.

This is Dmitry Buryakov?

Konstantin’s father?

The realization crashes through me as the pieces snap into place—the way the crowd shifts, the way Konstantin has closed down, his body coiled so tightly it looks like it might shatter if anyone touches him.

I glance up at Konstantin again. His face is locked down, unreadable, but I can feel the anger simmering just under the surface.

He lifts his chin slightly, addressing Dmitry with a formality so tight it feels like it might snap. “Father,” he says, his voice even but stripped of anything warm. “I didn’t expect you here tonight.”

Dmitry’s mouth curves into a small, mocking smile. “Nonsense,” he says lightly, the faintest edge of amusement cutting through his voice. “What father wouldn’t attend his son’s wedding?”He steps a little closer, adjusting the cuff of his jacket with deliberate casualness. “You did invite me, after all.”

The way he says it—smooth, like a blade sliding between ribs—makes my skin crawl.

I glance at Konstantin again. I see it then—the flicker across his face.

Surprise.

He didn’t expect his father to actually come.

He probably sent an invitation out of obligation, out of some political necessity—never believing for a second that Dmitry Buryakov would bother gracing him with his presence.

And yet here he is.

Not to bless the marriage. Not to offer support. But to remind everyone here exactly who holds the real power.

Dmitry’s gaze flicks to me again, lingering in that way that makes my skin crawl. “And you,” he says smoothly, “must be the miracle worker. Taming a Buryakov. Imagine that.”

Buryakov.

He says Konstantin’s last name the way you’d use a slur.

As if he doesn’t deserve to wear the name.

As if he should be separated from the “real” Buryakovs standing around us.

I feel Konstantin tense beside me again, but he still doesn’t rise to it, letting his father’s words wash over him without a flinch.

And somehow, it guts me more than if he had fought back.

Because this—this cold humiliation—he’s used to it.

The conversation drags painfully on. Dmitry stays just long enough to twist the knife a little deeper, all under the guise of polite, paternal interest.

“You’ve landed well, Konstantin,” Dmitry says, his voice easy, pleasant even. “A wife. A household to manage. Stability.” He smiles faintly, a predator baring teeth. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”