Page 162 of Bratva Bidder
Smoke rises in oily tendrils from the hedges. Someone screams. People scatter in every direction—black silhouettes against the glow of the string lights now flickering wildly. I spot Dmitry’s men near the driveway, exchanging fire with someone behind the trees.
Where are the children?
I whirl around, eyes wild, panic twisting inside me like a knife. And that’s when I feel it—a crack of pain so blinding it knocks the breath from my lungs.
My leg buckles beneath me.
I fall hard, the stone scraping my palms. My dress tears. When I touch my thigh, my hand comes away red.
Blood.
Fuck. I’ve been shot.
I grit my teeth, fighting the rising bile in my throat. I can’t stop. I can’t think. I start to crawl, dragging myself forward, leaving a trail of red behind me.
Then I see her.
Irina.
She’s alone, near the far corner of the courtyard, her face drawn with determination as she peers into the distance—no doubt looking for me, for the kids, for anyone to help. I try to scream her name, but my voice is a whisper, swallowed by the chaos.
And then I see him.
Kirov.
That bastard from the auction.
His eyes gleam in the darkness, locked on Irina like a predator who’s waited far too long to strike.
“No,” I croak, trying to force myself up. My vision spins. I claw at the stone, scraping my skin raw. “No?—”
But she doesn’t see him. Not until it’s too late. Just a flick of his wrist and Irina’s throat opens like torn silk. She gasps.
“No!” I scream, lungs tearing.
He vanishes into the smoke before I can even register if he saw me.
Irina drops to her knees, then crumples face-forward. I’m running before I know it, the burning in my thigh forgotten. I fall beside her, turning her gently over.
Her eyes flicker. Her lips move. She tries to say something—but the blood is already choking her words.
“I’m here,” I whisper, my hands trembling as I press them to the wound, useless. “You’re okay. I’ve got you, Irina.”
But she isn’t okay. She’s dying in my arms.
Tears stream down my cheeks as I cradle her head, smoothing back her hair.
“You saved them,” I whisper, barely able to speak past the lump in my throat. “You got them away. You did it.”
Her fingers twitch once, on my sleeve. Then nothing.
She’s gone, just like that. And I feel it. Like the world shifts. Like some part of our little universe has just torn at the seam. I cry silently into her hair, rocking her like a child.
A moment later, I hear Lev’s voice shouting for me through the haze. But I don’t move.
“Nadya.”
The voice is rough, urgent.
