Page 150 of Bratva Bidder
She doesn’t respond right away, just looks at me with eyes that don’t blink, like she’s weighing the weight of that ask.
“You think it’s a trap?” she finally says.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “It didn’t feel like one. But nothing about him ever feels like it is until it’s too late.”
She exhales and rests her head against my shoulder. “Then don’t go.”
“I have to,” I say.
“Why?”
“I need to know what he’s doing. What he’s playing at. And—” I hesitate. “Part of me feels…responsible now, considering what he’s done for Nikolai.”
She’s quiet for a while. Then she lifts her head. “I’m coming with you.”
I turn to her, startled. “Nadya?—”
“Don’t argue with me. I want to be there. I’m not letting you face any of this alone anymore.”
I search her face. She’s serious, more than serious. Steady and certain, even after everything. Even with Nikolai on that bed.
“I don’t want you near him,” I say quietly. “You know that.”
“I’ll be near you,” she says. “That’s what matters.”
I look back at Nikolai. His chest rises and falls in slow, even breaths. Stronger than before. Still so small. Still ours.
“All right,” I say finally, threading my fingers through hers. “We’ll go. Together.”
Rain hammers the windshield in relentless sheets, turning the cemetery lane into a slick ribbon of black water. I kill the engine beside a row of idling limousines, and for a moment neither Nadya nor I move. The wipers stall mid-arc; the blur outside resolves into a scattering of black coats and black umbrellas and faces blurred by grief—or curiosity—under the gray canopy of Russian sky. Even in death, Roman draws a crowd.
I step out first, the downpour soaking my lapels before I can yank the umbrella from the back seat. Nadya slips beneath the canvas with me, her hand light on my arm, the only warmth in a world gone cold and wet. Five of my men fan out behind us in plain suits, nothing ostentatious but visible enough to remind Dmitry’s loyalists that I’m not walking into a lion’s den unarmed.
We reach the edge of the assembled mourners just as the casket begins its slow descent. The crane squeals; taut straps hiss through metal guides. A priest drones the final rites, the Latin swallowed by thunder. Roman’s coffin—jet-black mahogany banded in silver—glides downward into a rectangle of mud, the polished lid already stippled by raindrops.
I don’t push forward. Nadya and I stay under a cluster of skeletal birches, half-hidden yet impossible to miss. My coat is heavy with water; each breath clouds the air between us. Across the open grave Dmitry stands beneath a massive black umbrella held by a bodyguard. He turns, meets my gaze, and inclines his head—neither welcome nor warning. Beside him Alexei does the same, eyes rimmed red, looking smaller than I’ve ever seen him.
The crowd ripples with whispered recognition. A few glances turn hostile; more turn wary. They know the rumors—Konstantin set the fire, Konstantin betrayed his own flesh, Konstantin’s war will bury us all. I feel each stare like a stone in my coat pocket, but I keep my face empty, rain streaking down my jaw in place of tears.
Then she sees me. Ludmila breaks from the front row. Hysteria rides her voice, high and raw. “What is he doing here?” She points, hair plastered to her cheeks, mascara running in gothic streams. “You know what he did! Dmitry—why is he here?”
The murmurs swell into a tide. My men step instinctively closer. Nadya tightens her grip on my elbow.
Dmitry says nothing—only lifts a hand, a silent command for calm. Ludmila wrenches free of the aide trying to restrain her and lurches toward me, but Alexei catches her, arms around her shoulders, guiding her back beneath the umbrella. Her sobs pierce the drum of rain; every eye flicks between her grief and my stillness.
I should speak. I should offer some hollow condolence. Instead I watch the coffin settle, the straps loosen, the crane retract—steel bite of finality. A worker shovels the first wet clod; it lands with a dull, definitive thud. Roman, who once called me brother more than blood, is now only a shape in the ground.
A gust flips the edge of our umbrella, spattering Nadya’s face. She doesn’t flinch.
“I told you,” Ludmila sobs. “He’s cursed. Everything he touches turns to blood.”
Dmitry finally steps forward and places a hand on her arm. “Enough,” he says quietly. “This isn’t the time.”
She shoves his hand away and disappears back into the crowd, shaking and muttering.
I exhale.
“I think we’ve paid our respects,” Nadya says quietly beside me.
