Page 84 of Bratva Bidder

Her face pales. “I’ll call someone to check?—”

“Don’t bother.”

I turn and walk away before I do something I’ll regret, pulling my phone out and dialing Lev.

He picks up after two rings, already groggy. “Didn’t expect to hear from you this early,” he mutters. “Everything alright?”

“No,” I snap. “I need you to find me the best pediatric specialist in the city. Someone with cardiac-related experience.”

There’s a pause. “Okay,” Lev says slowly. “That’s oddly specific. Did something happen?”

“Nikolai’s in pain. I want him seen. Tonight.”

“Konstantin…” Lev sighs. “You can’t just pull the best doctor out of thin air. These people don’t live in your back pocket.”

“Then dig deeper,” I say flatly. “I don’t care what you have to promise, who you have to pay, or how many red carpets you need to roll out. You find them.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

Then: “Okay,” Lev says. “I’ll call you in an hour.”

“You have thirty minutes.” And I hang up.

I don’t return to the nurse’s desk. I don’t trust her. I don’t trustanyof them now. My hands are already clenched at my sides as I walk back into the room, forcing my footsteps to slow, to quiet. Nikolai’s eyes are half-closed again, his tiny hand now clutching the blanket near his stomach. There’s a soft crease between his brows. He’s in pain.

I take my seat beside him, jaw still tight.

“I told someone,” I say, keeping my voice calm, even though the burn in my chest hasn’t faded. “But we’re going to get someone better, someone who actually listens.”

He blinks, and for a second I think he might ask a question, but he just nods. A tired little nod that guts me more than I expect.

I lean forward and brush a hand gently through his hair, surprised at how natural it feels. How right.

A few minutes pass. I glance at the clock. Twenty-two minutes until Lev’s deadline.

Nikolai shifts slightly under the blanket.

“Is it bad?” I ask quietly.

He nods again. “Not like yesterday. But it’s…there.”

I press my palm gently against his forehead. No fever. Just discomfort and that dull, persistent look in his eyes that tells me he’s used to it. That he’s learned how to live in pain.

Not for the first time, I feel something ancient and violent curl inside me.

He shouldn’t know this kind of suffering.

Not at five years old.

Notmyson.

I pull my phone out and text Lev:ETA?

The response comes two minutes later:Still working. Got two names. One’s in surgery, the other is in New York. Working on calls. Give me a bit more time.

I type out a single word:Now.

Then I look down at Nikolai, his lashes fluttering, his breath shallow but even.