Page 59 of Bratva Bidder

“I’ll send what I can,” he growls.

He hangs up.

The ping comes a few minutes later.

A wire transfer—small, barely enough to cover the first set of tests. But it’s something.

Except…it’s not from Pyotr.

I frown as I check the details. The money’s been sent from an unfamiliar personal account under the name Vadim S. Polzin. The name means nothing to me, but it screams one thing loud and clear—Pyotr didn’t use his own funds. He doesn’t have funds. He borrowed this from someone.

I feel sick.

He’s gotten himself in deeper than I thought.

Of course he has.

And me—I was stupid enough to leave the money in his hands. I should’ve demanded an airtight agreement, something in writing that would’ve sent the money to me, not him. Something legally binding. But I was too desperate, too rushed. Too scared. I didn’t think he’d sink this low, this fast.

I thought Nikolai had more time.

I forward the money to the hospital and text Irina:Transfer’s done. Tell them to start the tests.

I need air. And not the suffocating kind that presses behind gilded windows and chandeliered ceilings.

I need sky.

So I slip out of the house quietly, my boots crunching over gravel as I walk the long path that winds behind the estate. The garden gives way to something wider, more open. Sparse trees, a flat clearing, and the low, rhythmic thud of shots fired in the distance.

I follow the sound.

It leads me to Konstantin.

He stands with his back to me, legs apart, shoulders squared, arms raised in perfect form as he fires into a set of metal targets arranged across the yard. The sun catches the sharp lines of his profile, his movements precise, unhurried, lethal.

I should turn around.

But I don’t.

Instead, I stay rooted, watching him eject the magazine and reload with an ease that makes something dark curl in mystomach. There’s a cold beauty in it—the calm way he handles violence, like it’s second nature.

He senses me, and his body stills.

Without looking over his shoulder, he speaks. “You want to try?”

I blink. “What?”

He turns, finally, his gaze locking with mine. “You’ve been watching long enough. Come here.”

I hesitate. But something about the way he says it—low, coaxing, a challenge—pulls me forward. He holds out the gun, and I take it, careful with the weight.

“It’s heavier than I thought,” I murmur.

“You’ll get used to it.”

He steps in behind me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his chest against my back.

“Like this,” he says near my ear, his breath brushing the edge of my cheek. “Finger here. Support here.”