Page 72 of Bratva Bidder

She knows who I am.

“You’re Irina,” I say, almost to myself.

She steps closer to the little girl, whose hand is still loosely clasped in mine. “Mila,” she murmurs. “Where did you rush off to?”

“I went to find Mommy,” Mila says innocently, lifting her arms.

Irina scoops her up and holds her tightly, whispering something into her hair that I don’t catch. Her eyes never leave mine.

The room is thick with unspoken things.

I take a step closer to the hospital bed. The boy is sleeping—fitfully, if the little furrow in his brow is anything to go by. There’s a dampness at his temple, his breathing shallow, but steady. Machines hum around him, blinking like silent sentries.

“What’s his name?” I ask quietly, eyes never leaving him.

Irina hesitates. I can hear her heartbeat from here.

But then she exhales slowly and answers, “Nikolai.”

The name lands like a stone in my chest.

My hand flexes at my side.

“How old is he?” I ask, though part of me already knows.

“Five,” Irina replies. “They’re twins. Mila came first.”

I nod once. “And what’s wrong with him?”

She pauses again, gaze narrowing. “That’s not something I can discuss with you, sir.”

“Don’t call me that,” I mutter, jaw tight. “I’m not my father.”

She doesn’t look convinced.

I can’t blame her.

Her arms tighten protectively around Mila, whose head has slumped against her shoulder, fingers still clutching the plush fox. Irina strokes her hair absently.

“Nikolai’s condition is…rare,” she finally says. “He needs more tests. Treatment. Time. But he’s strong. He’sfighting.”

I watch him as he sleeps, the tiny rise and fall of his chest nearly drowned out by the quiet hum of machines around him. The oxygen tube taped to his cheek makes my throat tighten.

I’ve sat beside dying men. I’ve seen bullet wounds rip through flesh, heard final breaths gurgle from lungs. But this—this boy fighting silently in a hospital bed—undoes me more than any battlefield.

My son.

I can’t stop saying it in my head.

He has my jawline. My stubborn brow. Even the way his hands curl over the blanket feels familiar.

I don’t speak. I can’t.

Behind me, Irina gently lowers Mila onto a cushioned chair. She covers the girl with a soft shawl and presses a kiss to her forehead. Then she turns to me.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she says, not coldly, but with steel. “She didn’t want you knowing.”

“I know that,” I murmur, still watching the boy. “Doesn’t change the fact that I do now.”