Page 52 of Bratva Bidder

Kirov.

I turn. He’s there, leaning against the bar like he owns it, drink in hand, sweat shining on his forehead. He’s talking to some pale, rat-faced man I’ve seen lingering around Dmitry’s circle. Both of them are laughing.

He doesn’t see me coming.

I walk up, slow and deliberate, and then I hit him.

Hard.

The crunch of cartilage under my fist is deeply satisfying. Kirov staggers back, crashing into the bar with a grunt, his drink shattering beside him.

“Konst—what the fuck?—!”

I don’t answer.

I punch him again.

Once in the gut, once across the jaw. He drops, wheezing. I grab him by the collar, haul him back up, and slam his back into the bar hard enough that a few glasses topple nearby.

The music falters. Someone gasps. People are turning.

I lean in close, my voice calm, razor-sharp. “Mention her name again, and I’ll break your jaw for real next time. Got it?”

Blood trickles from his nose. He nods, wide-eyed and stunned.

I let go, and he crumples to the floor.

I don’t look back as I walk away, fists still clenched, heart pounding.

Where the hell did she go?

I walk away without looking back.

Behind me, Kirov is wheezing on the floor, blood on his teeth and panic in his eyes. His little friend has disappeared, probably slithering off into the crowd to whisper what just happened to anyone who will listen.

I adjust the front of my shirt as I move through the room, rolling my shoulders once. There’s blood on my cuff. I wipe it clean with my thumb.

People part as I pass. Some look away. A few pretend not to have seen anything. But most of them stare. Not in open challenge—no one here’s that stupid—but with wide eyes and thin smiles that say everything they’re too cowardly to voice.

That’s right. Remember me. Remember what happens when you lay hands—or thoughts—on what’s mine.

I spot Lev near the far wall, speaking to one of the security staff. His eyes track me the second I cross into the next room, his expression hardening as he takes in my pace, the tension rolling off me.

“What the hell happened?” he asks under his breath as I reach him.

“She’s gone,” I say.

His face goes still. “What do you mean, gone?”

I glance around, scanning every hallway, every corner, already knowing the answer.

“She slipped out,” I mutter. “While I was on the phone. I thought she was coming back. She didn’t.”

Lev frowns. “You think someone took her?”

“No,” I snap. “I think she left.”

He blinks once, then says what we’re both thinking. “Where the hell would she go?”