Page 79 of Bratva Bidder

“I’ll keep her safe,” he promises aloud, and I make myself nod even though part of me wants to snatch her back, hold her tight, remind her who sang every lullaby until dawn.

Instead I whisper, “Thank you,” because that’s what a mother who puts her children first is supposed to say.

He turns to leave, Mila nestled securely in his arms. The door closes behind them, and the quiet that follows is thick—equal parts relief and ache. I lean down to kiss Nikolai’s brow, tasting saline tears I didn’t realize had fallen.

One step at a time, I tell myself. One truth at a time.

The room has never felt this quiet.

The lights are dimmed to a low, warm glow, and the rhythmic hum of Nikolai’s heart monitor has faded into something almost comforting. For the first time since his last flare-up, I’m allowed to stay through the night. I sit on the edge of the bed, one hand resting lightly over his small one, watching the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps.

This moment—being here with him, justbeing—feels like a privilege I haven’t earned.

Irina moves quietly around the room, organizing the tray, folding discarded blankets, giving me the illusion of privacy while never really looking away. When I finally turn to her and say, “You should go. Get some sleep, Irina,” her hands still.

She doesn’t move.

I offer a faint smile. “You’ve been up for two nights straight.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’ve done enough. Go.”

She stares at me for a moment longer, then walks slowly over to the other side of the bed and gently smooths Nikolai’s hair. Shepresses a soft kiss to his temple, her hand lingering a moment too long before she finally straightens.

But she doesn’t leave.

“Nadya,” she says carefully, her voice low and cautious, “can I ask…what happened?”

I tense. Look away. “Nothing I want to talk about.”

“I just?—”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it,” I repeat, firmer this time.

Irina nods once but doesn’t move toward the door. She glances at me, then at Nikolai, then finally lets out a breath. “You think he’s cruel,” she says quietly, “and maybe he is. Maybe he’s been shaped by things we’ll never fully understand. But what I saw tonight…” She trails off.

“What you saw,” I echo bitterly.

She looks straight at me. “I saw a man holding his daughter like the world had just handed him a miracle. And Nadya…there was nothing cruel in his eyes. Nothing cold.”

I clench my jaw and shake my head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to him.”

“Well it doesn’t to me.” I rise and start adjusting Nikolai’s blanket, pretending my hands aren’t shaking. “I’m only making peace with him for the sake of my children. That’s it. Nothing more.”

Irina watches me for a moment, and for once, she doesn’t argue. Doesn’t say what she’s really thinking.

She just walks to the door, pausing there long enough to whisper, “For their sake, I hope it stays that simple.”

Then she’s gone, and I’m left alone with my son, the soft beeping of monitors, and the echo of a truth I don’t want to admit.

It’s already not that simple.

Not anymore.

Nikolai nestles closer, warm and fragile against me, his fingers still curled in the fabric of my shirt. The machines continue their steady rhythm, the soft glow of the monitors painting his face in shifting light. He’s quiet for a while, and I think he’s fallen asleep again—until his voice, drowsy and gentle, slips out.