Page 116 of Bratva Bidder
But I can’t stop now.
It feels too good to let it out. To hand this truth to someone who won’t look away.
“I’m going after him,” I say quietly. “Roman. My father. The entire goddamn machine they’ve built. I’m not letting them touch what’s mine. Not again.”
She doesn’t say anything for a long time. Just breathes with me.
Then, finally, her hand moves again—this time over my heart.
“I can hardly imagine what you’re feeling,” she says, voice soft but clear. “But don’t do anything reckless.”
I don’t say anything. Because I know she’s right. Because I am angry. And because I do have a plan—one that doesn’t involve patience or consultation. One that’s already in motion.
She shakes her head. “We’ll come up with a plan. Something smart. Their deaths will be avenged. But we have to be careful, Kon.”
I nod once, just enough to make her think I heard her. Just enough to let her breathe.
But inside, I’ve already decided.
This war won’t be fought with caution.
I wait until her breathing evens out again beside me. Until she relaxes into sleep, trusting me with this fragile quiet.
And then I rise, dress in silence, and leave the bedroom before dawn cracks the horizon.
The office at the back of the house is dim and quiet, but it wakes up the second I step in, screens flickering to life. My ledgers. My shell companies. My offshore accounts. The cargo manifests. The nightlife fronts. The distribution arms that move everything from vodka to information.
I’ve built an empire under the nose of every enemy who ever underestimated me.
Now I need to know which part they’ve touched.
Which part they think they’ve infected.
And which part I’ll have to cut off to keep the rest alive.
I make a list.
Every business. Every manager. Every second-tier lieutenant I haven’t spoken to in the last three weeks.
If there’s rot, I’ll find it.
The bouncer recognizes me the moment I step out of the car—eyes widen, spine straightens—and he waves us inside without a word. Red 27 isn’t the sort of club that advertises; you find it only if someone wants you to. Ivana was seen here three weekends ago, cameras confirm it, and Sergei left with her an hour later. But I want to see it myself.
I head for the service corridor behind the bar. Staff glance up, clock the situation, and pivot out of the way. There’s comfort in quiet competence.
Arturo, the night tech, straightens when we enter the surveillance booth. He doesn’t ask questions; he just cues the feeds of the past few weeks.While the footage loads, a bartender ghosts in, sets a tumbler of Lagavulin at my elbow, and leaves without comment. Good staff anticipate need; better staff know when to disappear.
A screen flares: Ivana in silk, Sergei beside her, nerves twitching in his fingers. They talk. She laughs—too easy, too practiced—and he slides a note across the lacquered counter. She palms it, finishes her drink, and walks out. Routine, almost forgettable, if you aren’t looking for it.
Arturo’s scrolling through the last few weeks of footage, cross-checking faces and time stamps, when he suddenly leans back in his chair and taps the screen.
“That girl?” He points to Ivana. “She’s been here before. Not just once. I’ve seen her around.”
I stop cold. “What?”
He nods, slow. “Twice in the last two months. Never stayed long. Met different people. Always looked like she had somewhere else to be.”
I stare at him. “And you didn’t think to mention this sooner?”
