Page 61 of Bratva Bidder
I watch her disappear around the edge of the house, sunlight catching in her hair, and for a moment I’m still holding the scent of her perfume in my lungs.
I unload the chamber, reset the target, but I don’t shoot. Not yet.
The next shot slices clean through the center of the target, but it doesn’t bring the satisfaction I want. My blood’s still hot from Nadya’s body pressed against mine. Her voice. Her scent. Her lies.
“She’s not what she seems,” I mutter to myself.
“You talking to the gun now?” Lev’s voice cuts across the clearing.
I turn. He’s walking toward me, sleeves rolled, sunglasses on, a bottle of water in one hand. I don’t answer.
“You missed,” he says dryly, nodding toward the bullseye I haven’t touched since Nadya left.
“I was thinking,” I reply, ejecting the magazine and handing him the gun.
“That’s always dangerous,” he mutters, taking it from me.
I don’t smile. “She handled that pistol too well.”
Lev lifts an eyebrow. “The bride? I thought she was just nervous. You’ve got that effect on people.”
“She wasn’t nervous,” I say flatly. “She was pretending to be.”
He stares at me for a beat. “You sure?”
“She missed deliberately. Someone taught her to use a gun, Lev. Someone trained her.”
Lev exhales, scratching the back of his neck. “She’s Pyotr’s daughter. Maybe one of his goons?—”
“She didn’t grow up with Pyotr,” I cut in. “He only brought her back when he needed a bargaining chip. Before that, she was gone for years. Abroad.”
“Where?”
“That’s what I need you to find out.”
Lev narrows his eyes. “You want me to dig through years of her life? Quietly?”
I nod once. “No chatter. No records flagged. I want to know where she went, who she lived with, who taught her to shoot like that.”
“She might just be street tough,” Lev mutters. “You’re looking for ghosts.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” I say, my voice colder now.
“You think she’s working for someone?”
“I think she’s been hiding a lot more than she lets on.”
Lev doesn’t respond right away. He walks up to the target and pulls it down, inspecting the bullet holes. “So you think Pyotr sent you a trojan horse?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think Pyotr knows what she is. He thinks he sent me a lamb. But she’s got teeth.”
Lev tilts his head. “You’re not rattled, are you? I thought you liked difficult women.”
When I don’t reply, Lev studies me, the silence stretching between us.
“Look,” he finally says, “if you think she’s dangerous?—”
“I don’t think she’s a threat,” I interrupt. “But I don’t like being lied to.”
