Page 74 of Bratva Bidder

“You two have a fight?”

I don’t answer.

Lev exhales through his nose, glancing back at the hospital doors. “You want backup?”

“No. I need you to stay here.”

Lev raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push. “Alright,” he says. “Call me if you find her.”

“I will.”

He steps back from the window as I roll it up again and turn the key.

The engine hums to life, and I drive without direction, letting instinct take the wheel. Los Angeles blurs around me in streaks of neon and storm. The city, usually loud and pulsing, is drowned tonight beneath torrential rain. Wipers slap the windshield in a futile rhythm, and I grip the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles ache.

Her voice echoes in my head.

One of them is suffering because of you.

And I don’t even remember touching her.

What kind of man doesn’t remember the night he created a child?

Children.

She stood in my home. Slept in my bed. Let me touch her, kiss her, without saying a goddamn word. She looked me in the eye knowing I was their father.

The betrayal festers in my chest like acid.

The rain slams harder now, angry fists on the roof of the car. I swipe at the fog on the inside of the glass with my sleeve and blink into the downpour—and that’s when I see her.

A slumped figure, soaked and still, sitting on a park bench like the rain’s forgotten to fall on anyone else. Her hair is plastered to her face, the dress she wore earlier now heavy with water. She’s hunched, arms wrapped around herself, and I don’t even hesitate.

I pull the wheel hard and cut across the curb.

Gravel spits under the tires as I kill the engine.

My door slams behind me, the sound swallowed by the storm, and I stride into the park, not bothering with an umbrella. She lifts her head at the sound of my boots crunching through wet grass. Her eyes widen, and she rises too quickly, stumbling a little, like she hadn’t expected to be found.

Good.

Because I didn’t expect to be the one to find her.

“Nadya.”

She stiffens at the sound of my voice.

I stop a foot in front of her, water dripping off my coat, breath heavy, fists clenched at my sides.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” I bite out. “Running off like that?”

Her chin lifts. “You don’t get to ask me that.”

“No?” I step closer. “Then who does, Nadya? Your father?”

“You followed me?” she says, not answering my question.

I don’t answer right away.