Page 50 of Bratva Bidder

I have to leave. Now.

But I can’t go back through the party. The moment I’m seen out of place, alone, questions will follow. Eyes will follow. And I don’t have time to lie my way out of anything.

My gaze sweeps the terrace.

The edge of the building is framed in ornate stone railing, a shallow drop onto another tiered roof below. The walls are wide, the building old. The gaps between ledges are jumpable. Scalable. My kind of terrain.

I look down at my dress—floor-length silk slit up one thigh—and curse under my breath. Not ideal.

But I’ve done more in worse.

I climb the railing in one breath, legs swinging over with practiced ease.

Then I drop. A soft thud against gravel and stone. My knees bend, absorb the shock. I don’t wait. I run.

Skimming along the roof edge, vaulting over a service pipe, grabbing the lip of a steel support beam and pulling myself down with a fluid twist of my body.

I look down at the slit in my dress, already torn slightly near the hem from how tightly it hugs my legs, and curse under mybreath. I take off the heels first, grip them both in one hand, and shove them into a bush near the wall.

The wind kicks against my side, tugging at my dress, threatening my balance, but my fingers are already finding the next hold. My shoes are gone. My heartbeat is deafening. The city is blurred lights below me, and all I can think ishold on, get down, get to him.

I leap, catching the edge of a decorative cornice, swinging one leg over, then dropping again, my feet slapping silently against another ledge.

The terrace above vanishes as I tuck into a roll and spring up again, hands finding the edge of a second-tier awning. I scale it fast, gripping the rough stucco facade with fingers that know how to hold weight. My thighs burn as I hook one leg over the support column and shimmy down, angling toward the fire escape tucked behind a wrought-iron lattice of vines.

Someone might see me.

I don’t care.

Another drop—this one to the next balcony—the hem of my dress catching on the railing. I yank it loose and keep moving, slick with sweat, heart hammering out a countdown I can’t silence.

Three levels down now.

I land on a copper drainpipe and slide until I can grip a second ledge with my fingertips, then lower myself hand over hand. My arms strain, but the motion is fluid, automatic. My body remembers.

When my feet finally touch solid ground, I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

I start running, barefoot, breathless, holding the wreck of my dress in one hand and Irina’s voice in my head.

The cab smells like old cigarettes and stale fast food, but I barely notice. I give the driver the address Irina texted me without blinking, my voice thin and cracking.

Crescent Memorial Hospital is where Nikolai has been going since he was two years old and we found out something was wrong with him.

The ride is a blur of city lights and horn blasts, too bright, too loud, not real. I clutch my phone in my lap, reading Irina’s message over and over again, like repetition will rewrite reality.

Room 208. He’s stable. But hurry.

I press my fingers to my lips, trying to hold myself together. Trying to breathe around the terror clawing up my throat.

Stablemeans nothing. Stable is just a word they use when they don’t want you to panic on the way.

When we pull up to the emergency entrance, I throw money at the driver and run. My feet slap the concrete, raw from the rooftop, bleeding from glass I didn’t feel earlier.

I don’t care.

The moment I reach the second floor and see Irina standing outside the room, her eyes swollen and red, I know.

I don’t ask. I don’t speak.