Page 109 of Bratva Bidder
Gleb nods slowly. “Military-grade everything. They knew exactly where to hit, who to drop first. Didn’t even give Sergei time to reach his weapon.”
I turn on my heels, leave Gleb without another word, and stalk back into the main warehouse floor.
“Maksim, Yuri,” I bark. “Who else knew about the location change?”
Yuri shakes his head instantly. “Just inner circle. No one beyond me, Anton, Maksim, and you.”
“Then someone else was listening,” I say coldly. “Any anomalies recently—strange calls, messages, new contacts?”
Maksim stiffens suddenly. “Wait. Yesterday morning, Sergei got a call from some woman—he stepped out to take it. I asked who it was after, but he just said family. It seemed harmless.”
“Sergei didn’t have family,” Yuri interrupts, his voice tense. “At least none he ever spoke to.”
I rub my jaw. “Sergei’s phone,” I say, turning back to Gleb. “Do you have it?”
Gleb reaches slowly into the duffel bag at his feet, fingers trembling slightly. He pulls out a scuffed, cracked phone and hands it to me without a word.
I take it, my thumb already flicking across the screen, bypassing the lock with the override code we had in place for all trusted units.
Call history.
One number—marked only asUnknown—was dialed yesterday at 10:42 a.m. Exactly forty-five minutes before Sergei left the perimeter check and fifteen hours before he died.
I tap it.
The line rings once. Then again.
Then—
“Hello?” a woman answers. Her voice is calm. Steady. Not young, but not old either.
I lean against the desk and pitch my voice casual, non-threatening. “Hi, sorry to bother you. I think I’ve got the wrong number—I was trying to reach a friend. Sergei.”
Pause.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t know a Sergei.”
Interesting.
“Strange,” I say. “He told me to reach him here. Said you could help me if he wasn’t answering.”
Another pause—shorter this time. “I think you’ve been misinformed.”
“I don’t think so,” I say.
She doesn’t respond immediately.
And then—soft, off-mic—I hear another voice. Low. Male. Teasing.
“Come to bed, Ivana.”
The hairs on the back of my neck rise.
Not just the name.
The voice. Familiar in a way that makes my blood go still. Intimate, indulgent, slow like molasses and poison.
Roman.
