Page 32 of Bratva Bidder
I force a slow breath in through my nose.
I don’t think. I move.
I drop the clutch in my hand and grab a fistful of Konstantin’s jacket, yanking him backward with every ounce of strength I have.
“What the hell—” he starts, but he doesn’t finish.
Because that’s when the first shot splits the night.
A crack like the sky tearing open.
Glass shatters behind us—a violent explosion of noise—and people start screaming, ducking instinctively, some diving to the ground, others frozen in place with shock.
Another shot. Closer.
I shove Konstantin again, hard this time, forcing him to move, my body acting faster than my mind can keep up.
He snaps out of it instantly, grabbing me by the waist and pulling me low behind one of the heavy marble columns near the bar.
Another bullet whizzes past, splintering the edge of a chair we just vacated. Shards of wood spray the air. I hit the ground hard, my palms scraping against the cold marble floor, but I barely register it. My heart is pounding so loudly it drowns out everything else.
People are screaming now, running toward the elevators, toward the stairwells, knocking over tables, drinks spilling like blood across the stone tiles.
Konstantin covers me with his body instinctively, his hand pressed against the back of my head to keep me low. His other hand is already at his waistband, drawing a gun from a holster I hadn’t even noticed under his jacket.
The air is thick with the smell of gunpowder and fear.
“Stay down,” he growls, his voice rough and close to my ear.
I nod, my muscles trembling, adrenaline surging through me so fast it makes my vision pulse at the edges.
He lifts his head just enough to scan the rooftop, and I see the absolute calm that settles over him. Like this chaos, violence is where he was born.
Another shot rings out, and I flinch, instinct overriding everything else.
Konstantin pulls me tighter against him, shielding me with his body without hesitation.
And in that terrifying, broken moment, curled against him while the world crumbles around us, one thing crystallizes in my mind:
Whoever came here tonight didn’t come to send a message.
They came to kill.
8
KONSTANTIN
I knowthe smell of blood before it even hits the air.
Nadya moves first. She grabs me by the jacket, yanking me back just as glass shatters over our heads. If she hadn’t moved, if she hadn’t trusted whatever instincts she has tucked under that stubborn, too-proud exterior?—
That bullet would’ve been buried in my skull.
I don’t have time to be grateful.
I catch her as she stumbles, my arm locking around her waist, dragging her low, shoving her behind the thickest cover I can reach—one of the heavy marble columns flanking the rooftop bar.
Shots rip through the air again. People scream, scatter, overturning tables and champagne towers, shoes clattering against the stone, glass crunching underfoot.
