Page 146 of Bratva Bidder
Nikolai is next. Brave, beautiful Nikolai, holding Konstantin’s hand with the kind of quiet courage that breaks me inside. I kneel down and kiss his cheek, trying not to cry, trying not to make it harder. He doesn’t understand it all, not really, but he knows enough to look scared.
Konstantin walks beside him, his face unreadable, but I can feel the tension pouring off him in waves. If he could take Nikolai’s place, he would.
And just like that, they’re gone.
The doors close. The hallway is still. I let out a shaky breath and press my back to the wall, trying to keep my legs from giving out beneath me.
That’s when the thought comes—quiet, uninvited, heavy as stone.
Have I just made a deal with the devil?
Because no matter what Dmitry has done…no matter what blood he’s spilling for this…he’s still the same man who destroyed lives with a smile.
And now, part of my son’s future is in his hands.
The hours crawl.
We’ve left Mila at the house with Irina, kissed her head a little longer than usual, hugged her tighter. I didn’t want her to see me like this, strung tight with nerves, every bone in my body coiled in dread. She deserves a mother who smiles, who tells her everything is going to be okay, even when she’s not sure it will be.
Konstantin and I sit side by side in the sterile waiting lounge. He hasn’t moved much, just stares ahead like he’s trying to will the walls to give him answers. His elbows rest on his knees, hands clasped together, knuckles white. I’ve never seen him like this, so still. So silent. So wrecked.
I lean against him gently, threading my fingers through his. He squeezes back, hard. No words. We don’t need them.
We pray.
I’m not even sure who I’m praying to. Maybe to a God I’ve ignored most of my life. Maybe to fate. Maybe just to time itself, to move a little faster, to carry us past this storm.
Every time the doors at the end of the hall swing open, my breath stutters. Every time it’s not the surgeon, my heart falls a little further.
I can’t tell how long it’s been when the doctor finally steps out, mask down, expression calm.
“They’re stable,” he says.
For a moment, I don’t move. The words take a second to reach me, like they’re swimming through fog. But when they do, I feel something burst inside me—relief so pulsing its almost pain. I nod.
Konstantin stands slowly, hands clenched at his sides. “Can we see them?”
The doctor nods once. “From the observation window. No one can enter Nikolai’s room yet—not until we’re sure there’s no risk of infection. But…he’s through the worst of it.”
I press my hand to my mouth as tears burn hot and sudden behind my eyes.
We walk together down the long hallway. My legs feel unsteady, like I’m made of glass. I don’t know what I expect, but nothing prepares me for the sight of Nikolai lying in that small bed, wires and tubes everywhere, his little chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths. He looks so small in there. So still.
A glass panel separates us from him.
I step forward until my hands touch the window, forehead resting on the cool surface. The tears come faster now, slipping down my cheeks, and I don’t try to stop them.
“He’s okay,” Konstantin says softly behind me, his hand coming to rest on my back. “You did it.”
We did it, I want to say. But the words won’t come.
I just watch. Watch my son breathing, alive, safe for now.
And in the corner of the adjacent room, through another panel, I see Dmitry. Pale. Still. Monitors beeping around him, the shape of the man who once ruled our world now reduced to quiet recovery.
I don’t know what to make of that. Of him. Of the choices we’ve made to get here.
For now, all I can do is stand here with Konstantin’s hand steady at my back and let myself cry for everything we nearly lost—and everything we still might have to face.
