Page 33 of Bratva Bidder

I press Nadya against the ground, covering her with my body, my hand instinctively shielding the back of her head. Anotherbullet hits the column above us with a cracking sound, spraying marble dust across my back.

Too close. Too fucking close.

I draw my weapon in one clean motion, the cold weight of it familiar in my hand, steadying the hot rage surging through my veins.

I lift my head just enough to scan the scene. Whoever planned this knew exactly what they were doing.

“Stay here,” I mutter against Nadya’s hair, my voice rough but controlled.

She nods once, wide-eyed but focused. Not sobbing. Not frozen.

Good. She’s tougher than I thought.

I move low and fast, circling behind the bar, using the overturned tables and pillars as cover. My mind runs cold calculations—fastest exit points, potential backup routes, where my men are likely scrambling to respond. I catch flashes of familiar faces—Lev shoving guests toward the stairwell, two of my guards returning fire near the service entrance.

I pivot quickly, catching sight of a dark figure across the rooftop, near the remains of the shattered windows.

The gunshot punches through the chaos, the recoil rolling up my arm, but the figure jerks back—hit, or at least thrown off-balance.

I don’t stop to check.

I don’t have time.

Another shot whistles past me, grazing the marble near my shoulder.

I duck, breathing hard, counting the seconds it’ll take before they reload, reposition.

I have maybe thirty seconds to get Nadya out. Maybe less.

I turn back toward her. She’s still crouched behind the column, clutching the side of the marble, her eyes locked on me, trusting me to get her out of this. Trusting me even though I bought her like property. Even though she has every reason to hate me.

That trust sears through me, searing me more than any bullet. I jerk my head in a silent command.

Move.

Now.

She doesn’t hesitate. She scrambles toward me, keeping low, and I grab her hand the second she’s close enough, yanking her behind me, shielding her body with mine as I sprint toward the far stairwell.

Behind us, more shots crack out.

Another window explodes.

Someone screams—high and thin and gut-wrenching—but I don’t look back. There’s no room for hesitation.

I don’t loosen my grip on her hand even once as we sprint across the open rooftop, weaving between fallen chairs, shattered glass, and huddled bodies.

Her fingers are cold but strong in mine, not pulling away, not slowing me down.

Good.

We reach the service stairwell tucked behind the far bar, half hidden by a wall of ivy planters. I shove the door open with my shoulder, the heavy metal frame groaning on its hinges.

Inside, it’s dim and narrow, concrete walls closing in tight, the emergency lights flickering faintly overhead.

“Move,” I grunt, pushing her ahead of me.

Nadya doesn’t argue. She barrels down the stairs two steps at a time, breathing hard but controlled, her hand skimming the wall for balance.