Page 7 of Bratva Bidder
Not pity.
Just…interest.
Makarov was always reckless. He’d trade his teeth for chips at a table. But selling his daughter? That’s a new level of filth.
“Her father is an idiot,” Lev continues. “Gambled his way through every safe house from Brighton to Kiev. Owes half the underworld his spine.”
“Pull her file,” I say.
Lev blinks. “You’re serious.”
I don’t answer, because the car is pulling into the underground garage. Security meets us at the elevator. Scans us. Nods us through.
Lev leans in. “This kind of move? It’s going to get you noticed.”
“That’s the point.”
“And what if you win her?” he asks, quieter now. “Then what?”
I glance at him as the elevator doors close. “Then we see if she’s a weapon,” I say. “Or a liability.”
The moment I step inside, the stench of money and rot hits me like smoke.
Everything is gilded—chandeliers dripping with light, gold trim on the walls, hand-stitched velvet seats arranged like pews around a stage designed for sin. Skimpily dressed girls in heels and lingerie glide through the aisles, balancing crystal trays of cigars and champagne. Their smiles are painted on, their eyes vacant.
A few of the older men reach for them like they’re tasting fruit at a market.
It makes my stomach turn.
My mother would have spit on this place.
She died when I was twelve. Gentle hands, iron spine. She used to say,“A man’s power means nothing if he doesn’t know what it’s for.”Dmitry never listened.
Neither did most of the bastards here.
I adjust my cuffs and move toward the upper gallery. Lev trails beside me in silence now, absorbing the tension. I slide into a private booth overlooking the stage just as a girl is being led offstage.
Applause echoes—half-hearted, vulgar.
Then the air changes. Buzz rolls through the room like electricity.
I hear the whispers.
“Makarov’s girl, isn’t it?”
“The daughter?”
“Pyotr must be out of his mind…”
“They say she refused the offer twice. Poor girl’s being forced into it. Makes her even more valuable.”
“Bet she’s got fire.”
The tone is casual. Like they’re discussing livestock. Or cigars.
I feel my pulse tick. Sharks. All of them.
I know why they want her, Makarov’s daughter. Pyotr is an animal, but he has the right blood. Old Bratva. Ruthless. Feared. That kind of legacy still means something in rooms like this.
