Page 163 of Bratva Bidder
“Nadya, we have to go.”
I blink up at him. His face is blood-smeared and pale. His eyes drop to Irina, and something flashes across his features—grief, rage, maybe both.
“She’s gone,” I whisper. My voice cracks. “She’s?—”
“I know,” he says quietly, crouching and gently pulling me to my feet. “But we can’t stay. It’s not safe.”
“Where are the kids?” I choke out, blinking hard against the tears still running down my cheeks. “Mila—Nikolai?—”
“Mila’s with me,” he says, his voice strained. “She’s safe, in the secured hallway with three of our men.”
Relief slams into me so hard I almost fall again.
“But Nikolai…” Lev adds, eyes flicking toward the main house. “I can’t find him.”
My stomach drops.
“What?” I say. “What do you mean you can’t find him?!”
“I’m sorry, Nadya,” Lev says, looking stricken.
A scream gets caught in my throat. I look around. Where is my baby?
“Nikolai…” I whisper. “And Konstantin? Where’s Konstantin?”
Lev looks away for a beat too long.
“I don’t know,” he says, finally.
37
KONSTANTIN
Smoke rolls offthe lawn like fog, swallowing the lantern glow and turning music into static. A bullet slices past my right ear—close enough that the heat of it kisses my skin—and I pivot, gun up, eyes raking every shadow.
Where’s Dmitry?
I spot him near the pergola, one hand braced on the beam, barking orders at a guard. I push forward, weaving through overturned chairs and fallen tablecloths, blood pounding in my temples.
“Father!” I shout. It’s the first time I’ve called him that in years.
He looks over, just as a muffled crack splits the air. Red blooms on his chest. His eyes—wide, startled—find mine one last time before his legs fold. He drops, face-down in the grass.
Time fractures. I’m moving, but the world feels slow, syrup-thick. I reach him, kneel, press a hand to the wound pulsing dark right at the center of his chest. He’s gone before I can reach him.
Boots scuff behind me.
I rise, gun leveled at his attacker, only to freeze.
Alexei steps from the smoky haze, lowering his rifle with casual grace. The lanterns catch the edge of his smile.
“You,” I breathe.
“Took you long enough to figure it out, brother,” he says, almost fond. “Well…too late now.”
I rise slowly, fists clenched. Rage coils tight inside me. “You shot him.”
“I did,” he says, with all the serenity of a man discussing the weather. “And it felt good.”
