Page 94 of Bratva Bidder

Tears prick at my eyes, and I glance toward Konstantin. His expression is serious, committed.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “He will.”

The doctors leave us, and Konstantin steps closer. We stand side-by-side, watching Nikolai sleep peacefully.

“We’re going to get through this,” he murmurs softly. “Together.”

And for the first time, as I lean slightly into his steady warmth, I truly let myself believe him.

20

KONSTANTIN

I leanmy shoulder against the doorframe, arms folded, watching through the cracked doorway while the twins explore the makeshift bedroom we hastily arranged upstairs. Mila twirls on the rug like the princess she swears she is, her stuffed fox tucked beneath one arm. Nikolai sits cross-legged on the bed, tracing the pattern on the quilt, IV port hidden beneath a tiny sleeve. It isn’t the sun-splashed nursery they deserve, but it will have to do for now.

I can already see the walls painted a softer color, bookshelves filled, windows reinforced. Grand plans. They’ll have a room worthy of them, and nothing will ever touch them again.

A throat clears behind me.

Lev stops at my side, hands in his pockets, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “Fatherhood suits you, boss.”

I huff. “Spare me.”

“Can’t. Contractual obligation to tease you whenever you act sentimental.” His grin fades, professionalism sliding into place. “We have work.”

I push off the frame, closing the door gently so the latch doesn’t click. “The photos Nadya took—did you get anything?”

He nods once, leading the way down the corridor toward my study. “You’re not going to like it.”

“I never do.”

Inside the study, the scent of leather and old paper calms me in a way nothing else does. Lev spreads half-lit laptop screens and glossy printouts across the desk—the men from the SUV, frozen mid-stride in Nadya’s sharp images.

“Left one—Boris ‘Butcher’ Sotnik. Runs muscle for half the east-side crews,” Lev says, tapping the first photo. “The one with the scar? That’s Anatoly Melnic. He’s Roman’s.”

That makes me pause.

“Roman’s?” I echo.

“Yeah,” Lev says, watching my expression. “Still active. I saw Anatoly with him at that warehouse meetup six weeks ago—before the Westfield deal.”

I clench my jaw. Roman. My father’s golden boy. Official heir. The mirror of everything I was never meant to be. If his men are tailing me that means Roman has stepped out of Dmitry’s shadow and into mine.

“Roman’s sniffing around,” I say.

Lev nods grimly. “Anatoly doesn’t leave Roman’s orbit without orders. And if he’s circling your car, he’s gathering patterns, looking for soft targets.”

He taps the image. “He’s been close to Roman for years, mostly kept to the background, but not muscle. Strategic guy. Hehandles movement, communication, protection logistics. Seeing him trailing you—not good.”

I nod once. “If he’s sniffing around now, Roman didn’t send him by accident.”

Lev lowers his voice. “You think Roman’s starting something?”

I don’t answer right away. My mind’s already circling the possibilities, too many of them ending in blood. Roman was at the wedding. Smiling. Toasting. Playing the perfect brother. But I’ve seen him slit a man’s throat without raising his voice.

He’s not stupid enough to move without permission.

But someone might be using him.