Page 46 of Bratva Bidder

“If he wants me dead, he’ll try again,” I say. “And I won’t be so lucky every time.”

I see a shudder go through her. She may pretend she doesn’t care, but she does.

“And you want me to stop him?” she asks, brow arched.

“No,” I say. “I want you to help mebeathim.”

She flinches. Not visibly. Just a small shift in her stance. But I see it.

I press in anyway. “You’re here. You’re already in the middle of it. And I think you’ve got more to gain than you’re letting on.”

A pause.

Then she says, quietly, “You have no idea what I have to lose.”

The sun’s higher now, spilling hot light across the back of the property. I’m behind the house, the old training range tucked beneath a row of cypress trees, quiet and isolated. The kind of place where I can hear myself think, and more importantly—shut the fuck up and focus.

I reload slowly, sliding the magazine in with practiced ease. The dummy downrange is tattered from years of use—patched, repainted, but still standing. Like most things in my life.

“You told her what?” Lev’s voice comes from behind me.

I don’t answer.

I line up the sights.

Exhale.

“Konstantin.”

I squeeze the trigger. The shot rips through the dummy’s shoulder.

“She’s smart, but that doesn’t mean she’s ready,” Lev continues. “You sure it was a good idea to get her involved?”

I lower the gun, click the safety, let the silence stretch.

“She’s already in it,” I say quietly, watching the dummy sway. “Whether she likes it or not.”

Lev exhales. I don’t need to turn to know he’s shaking his head, arms probably crossed like he wants to lecture me. But he doesn’t push. Not this time.

I raise the gun again.

Nadya’s face flashes in my mind—not the way she looked when she was under me last night, or even at the table this morning. I see her the second before the first shot was fired. The way her eyes cut to the window. The way her body moved—fast, grounded, instinctive.

I close my eyes.

Exhale.

Pull the trigger again.

A perfect hit—right where the throat would be.

She doesn’t behave like a Bratva princess. She doesn’t act like someone raised to be seen, not heard. She isn’t soft. Or docile. Or clueless.

There’s something she’s not telling me. A piece of her past that doesn’t fit the polished image Pyotr Makarov pretended to auction.

And I’m going to find out what it is.

Because if I’m trusting her to stand beside me when the knives come out?—