Page 83 of Bratva Bidder

Nikolai watches me like he’s still trying to decide whether I’m a man or a monster.

And the worst part is—I don’t blame him.

I clear my throat quietly and glance at the book on the nightstand. Irina told me it’s his favorite. Dinosaurs. Of course. Every boy wants to know about the biggest, meanest things that ever walked the earth.

I pick it up, flipping through the pages, stopping at one with sharp teeth and claws.

“I used to be afraid of these too,” I say, not sure if he’s awake. “Velociraptors. Not the size—they were smaller than you’d think. But fast. Smart. They hunted in packs.”

Silence.

I glance over.

He’s awake. I know he is. His eyes are half-open. He’s pretending to sleep because pretending is easier.

I sigh and set the book down. “I know you don’t want to talk to me. That’s okay.”

Another beat of silence. I lean forward, rest my elbows on my knees. “I didn’t know about you,” I say softly. “That’s not an excuse. But it’s the truth. I didn’t know I had a son.”

His fingers twitch slightly.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I admit. “No one taught me how to be a father. But I’m here. And I want to try. If you’ll let me.”

Still nothing.

I press my fingers to my mouth, eyes burning before I even realize why.

“I missed five years, Nikolai,” I say, voice hoarse. “And I’ll never get them back. But I swear to you—on everything I’ve ever bled for—I won’t miss another day if I can help it.”

I expect nothing in return. Not a word. Not even a twitch.

But then, so softly I barely catch it?—

“My tummy hurts.”

I sit up straight, heart pounding. “Where?”

He lifts his hand weakly and presses it to his side.

“I’ll call the nurse,” I say, rising instantly. But before I do, I pause. “Thank you,” I murmur.

He doesn’t answer. But his hand stays visible now. Not hidden.

A crack in the wall.

I step out of the room with measured urgency, but inside I’m already on edge. Nikolai’s voice is still echoing in my ears—my tummy hurts—and I can’t shake the flicker of panic that something’s wrong. Something the doctors missed.

I spot a nurse at the desk and approach quickly, not bothering to soften my expression.

“My son is complaining of abdominal pain,” I say, voice low and clipped. “Room four-twelve.”

She barely looks up. “The doctor was just in there an hour ago.”

“He wasn’t hurting an hour ago.”

She sighs. “Kids say that sometimes. It could just be gas. It’s not uncommon?—”

“Stop.” I plant my hands on the edge of the counter, my eyes boring into hers. “You don’t know him. You don’t know his history. And I’m not here to debate symptoms with someone who’s more concerned about her chart updates than a five-year-old in a hospital bed.”