Page 151 of Bratva Bidder
“Wait,” I say.
The earth keeps swallowing Roman, shovel by shovel. Rain turns the grave into a mirror, the dark water rippling with every drop, every whispered prayer. Nadya and I don’t move. We stay rooted at the edge of the crowd, exposed but silent. The umbrella above us trembles in the wind, but neither of us speaks.
I can feel the weight of every glance like it’s pressing into my ribs. I hear them too—low voices slipping through the storm, meant to be buried in the downpour but not quiet enough.
“Is Dmitry welcoming his bastard back now?”
“Can’t believe he had the gall to show his face.”
“Must be some deal he’s come up with.”
My jaw locks. The same words I’ve heard my whole life, flung like knives behind my back and sometimes to my face. Bastard. Interloper.
I look across the grave to Dmitry. He stands motionless, umbrella tilted, his face a carved sculpture—stoic, unreadable. Like marble. Like Roman’s tombstone will be. There’s no pride in his expression. No shame either. Just that careful neutrality he’s always worn like armor.
And now I don’t know what to make of him.
He gave his own blood to save my son. Made himself a donor. Risked the surgery.
Nadya squeezes my hand, grounding me, but it doesn’t stop the heat that floods my chest. Not anger. Not shame.
Confusion.
Because they’re not wrong. Dmitry doesn’t just let people back into his life. He tests them. Breaks them. Uses them. And if they fail—he buries them, sometimes in graves like this one, sometimes in silence.
So, what is this? Why call me to Roman’s funeral?
Why offer up a piece of himself for Nikolai, his grandson he’s never met?
Why now?
My eyes drift across the crowd. Familiar faces. Some I grew up with. Some who wanted me gone. Some who helped push me out. Most avoid my gaze. A few linger long enough to make their disapproval known. One man crosses himself and mutters something that sounds like “traitor.”
I don’t flinch. But inside, a part of me is turning over and over, trying to find solid ground. Is he using this funeral to bring me back into the fold? Is this a power play? Is this guilt?
Or is this another game I haven’t figured out the rules to?
Beside the casket, Dmitry bows his head. Water trickles off the brim of his umbrella. Alexei shifts, whispering something to him, and for a fleeting second, I think Dmitry looks tired.
Not aged. Not weak. But…tired. In a way I’ve never seen.
It’s gone the moment I blink.
“It’s time now,” Nadya says again. “Let’s go.”
This time I don’t argue.
34
NADYA
The windoff the sea is warm and steady, tousling Mila’s hair as she races ahead of me down the beach, shrieking with laughter. Her tiny footprints trail behind her in the sand like a breadcrumb trail of joy. Nikolai follows more slowly, still careful on his feet after everything he’s been through, but there’s a light in his eyes I haven’t seen in months. A spark that tells me he’s not just surviving anymore—he’s living.
I close my eyes and breathe in the salt and sun, the gentle roar of the waves grounding me like nothing else can. The air smells of coconut sunscreen and the faintest trace of grilled fish from the food shacks up the road. Somewhere behind me, Irina is trying to keep up with both kids, sandals in one hand, hat in the other, muttering lovingly in Russian under her breath about sunstroke and wet socks.
It’s been three months since the surgery. Three months since Dmitry’s bone marrow saved my son’s life. Three months of waiting—for retaliation, for retribution, for the other shoe to drop.
But nothing came.
