Page 106 of Bratva Bidder
A deal that should’ve been silent. Invisible. And someone still found them.
Which means someone’s feeding information. Someone close enough to know.
I turn toward Mila.
She’s humming to herself, now crouched on the bench to get a better look at a patch of clover growing between the cracks. Completely untouched by the storm gathering in my gut.
And that’s exactly how I want to keep it.
I school my face, walk back to her, and offer her my hand. “Ready to go find Mommy?”
She looks up with a bright smile. “Are we getting waffles again?”
“Not today, printsessa.”
“But you promised!” she gasps, pouting dramatically.
I chuckle—tired, but real—and lift her into my arms. “Then I guess I’ll just owe you. One big waffle. With extra syrup.”
She wraps her arms around my neck and leans her head on my shoulder. And as I carry her back toward the hospital, I make a silent vow.
Whoever’s leaking from inside my operation?
They won’t live long enough to explain why.
I carry Mila through the lobby, her cheek resting against my shoulder, one sticky hand clutching the collar of my shirt. She’s dozing now, the kind of soft, half-lidded sleep that only comes after a sugar crash and too much emotional energy.
Part of me doesn’t want to set her down.
Not just because she’s warm and weightless in my arms—but because the second I do, the other part of my life comes crashing back in.
I step into the hallway just outside Nikolai’s room and spot Nadya immediately.
She’s standing by the window, arms crossed, worry stitched into every angle of her face. Her eyes go first to Mila—relieved—and then to me, silent and searching.
I pass Mila gently into her arms. She stirs, mumbles something about waffles, and nestles into her mother’s neck.
Nadya’s gaze never leaves mine.
I clear my throat. “I need to leave for a few hours.”
Her expression hardens. “What now?”
There’s no malice in her voice, but I hear the exhaustion behind it. The strain. The quiet accusation she’s too tired to make out loud.
“I can’t explain it here.” I glance toward the hallway, making sure the kids aren’t listening. “But it’s serious. I wouldn’t leave otherwise.”
Nadya crosses her arms slowly, her jaw tight. “You’re leaving. Again.”
“It’s not a choice,” I say, softer this time. “Not really.”
She doesn’t reply right away. I see her weighing it—anger, exhaustion, and understanding all battling for control behind those dark eyes. She could explode. She doesn’t.
Instead, she breathes in through her nose. “Fine.”
“I’ve already called Lev,” I add. “He’ll be here in twenty minutes. He’s staying with you until I get back.”
At that, she stiffens. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”
