Page 130 of Bratva Bidder
We stand in front of the bar, the battered door pulsing with bass that bleeds into the street like a bad heartbeat. Konstantin’s shoulders tense beneath his coat as he scans the alley mouth to our left, the rooftop line to our right, every vantage point a potential nest for eyes I know he can almost feel.
“Are you sure we’ll find him here?” he asks, voice pitched low, each word drawn out as though certainty itself could protect us from the mess waiting on the other side of that door.
“I’m sure,” I answer, letting the confidence settle in my chest even though it feels like balancing on glass. “When Pyotr is scared, he doesn’t trust safe houses or friends—he trusts anonymity and cheap liquor, and this place pours both by the gallon.”
Konstantin’s expression doesn’t shift, but I know him well enough to feel the crackle of violence underneath the surface. He steps out of the car and rounds to my side without a word.
Inside, the music is too loud and the air is thick with old smoke. A few heads turn as we enter, but most of the patrons keepdrinking, eyes sliding off us like oil. I spot the bartender—Arturo—nursing a toothpick and pretending not to recognize me.
I walk up to him, lean against the counter like I own it. “He’s here, isn’t he?”
Arturo doesn’t answer immediately, just glances toward the back with a faint grimace.
“Thanks,” Konstantin says coldly.
We don’t wait. We head to the back room, the door barely on its hinges, half-lit with flickering neon. Whatever we’re about to find—whoever—we’re not leaving until we get answers.
My father looks like hell.
Slouched in the cracked vinyl booth, a half-empty bottle of something cheap clutched in his hand, he barely registers us until I slide into the seat across from him. His eyes are bloodshot, and the sour stench of alcohol wafts off him in waves. His fingers twitch when he sets the bottle down.
“Well, well,” he rasps, voice rough with drink and cigarettes. “Look who finally decided to visit her old man.”
I don’t smile. I don’t blink. I just stare at him, letting the silence build like storm clouds overhead.
Konstantin remains standing, arms folded, a looming shadow at my side. He doesn’t speak either.
Pyotr laughs, short and bitter. “What’s this? You bring your husband to scold me, Nadya? Or just to show off how far you’ve come?”
“I’m not here to play games,” I say quietly. “I want answers.”
His expression shifts—still drunk, still smug, but there’s a flicker of something sharper in his gaze now. Fear, maybe. Or guilt. He leans forward, squinting. “Answers about what, sweetheart? You looking for parenting tips now?”
My fingers curl into fists beneath the table. “Don’t,” I warn. “Don’t pretend you don’t know why we’re here.”
He shrugs, but the motion is sloppy. “So enlighten me.”
Konstantin steps forward, voice ice-cold. “Someone told Dmitry about the kids. About Nikolai. He walked into that hospital like he owned it. Sat beside my son.”
Pyotr goes still. His hand trembles slightly before he snatches the bottle again. “That wasn’t me,” he mutters.
“You’re the only one who knew where we were keeping them,” I say. “You knew Nikolai was sick.”
He flinches at the last word, just barely, but I catch it. Konstantin does too.
“Dmitry isn’t the kind of man who waits,” Konstantin says, stepping closer, voice low. “If he wanted to find them, he wouldn’t start from scratch. He’d go through someone close. Someone careless. Or someone willing.”
“You think I’d sell out my own flesh and blood?” Pyotr spits. “After all I did for you?—”
“All you did?” I cut in, cold rising in my throat. “You mean like leaving me with broken ribs? Or the time you locked me in the cellar because I spilled your vodka?”
He falls silent, blinking rapidly, jaw working.
“I didn’t tell him anything,” he says at last. “But…someone might’ve overheard.”
Konstantin narrows his eyes. “Who?”
He shrugs again, defensive now. “I was drunk, alright? I don’t remember who was there.”
