Page 85 of Bratva Bidder
“I’m going to make sure they fix this,” I murmur, more to myself than to him. “Whatever it takes.”
He doesn’t respond—he’s asleep again—but his fingers curl in the blanket like they’re holding on to something. I don’t know if it’s hope or habit. But I reach out and rest my hand over his anyway.
I’ve taken lives for less than a careless shrug. For less than a child being ignored.
And if this city doesn’t bring me someone good enough, fast enough,I’ll bring them myself.Even if I have to rip them out of another man’s operating room.
The door creaks softly behind me. Irina moves to the side of the room without a word, glancing at Nikolai, then at me, her expression unreadable. She doesn’t ask why I’m here. Doesn’t demand an explanation. She just studies the boy in the bed like she’s done it a thousand times, because shehas.
“He’s sleeping,” I murmur.
“I can see that,” she says gently. Her voice carries exhaustion—but not defeat.
We sit in silence for a moment. The kind of silence that doesn’t need to be filled.
Then finally I say, “You were with them when they were born.”
“Yes.”
“You raised them.”
“I helped raise them,” she corrects, her tone kind, but firm. “Nadya’s done more with less than most women ever have. But yes, I’ve been there.”
Another pause.
“What was he like?” I ask. “When he was little?”
She blinks at me, clearly surprised by the question.
“Quiet,” she says finally. “From the start. Observant. Mila would cry, and he’d just…look around. Like he was collecting information before deciding what to feel.”
That sounds familiar.
“And when he did cry,” Irina adds with a soft smile, “it only stopped when Nadya held him. No one else would do.”
Lev calls back just past noon. I answer before the first ring ends.
“I found him,” he says without preamble. “Dr. Malcolm Rhodes. Cardio-pediatrics. Runs his own private practice uptown. Consults with two of the hospitals but barely sees new patients unless it’s a PR move or someone’s paying six figures.”
“Good,” I say. “Get him here.”
Lev pauses. “Kon, this guy doesn’t do house calls?—”
“I’m not asking,” I cut in. “Tell him a car is on its way. And if that doesn’t convince him, tell him I’ll finance his entire new wing if he gets here in the next two hours.”
Another pause. Then a quiet whistle. “Jesus. Alright. I’ll make it happen.”
I end the call and lean back against the chair, watching Nikolai sleep. His breathing’s steadier now, but it’s shallow. His skin’s too pale.
I can buy buildings, fix books, take down enemies—but I can’t fix this.
So I’ll pay the men who can.
It’s late afternoon by the time Dr. Rhodes arrives. White-haired, wiry frame, accompanied by two assistants in dark scrubs. He moves with the precision of a man who knows everyone in the room is watching him, and he thrives on it.
I stand back as they enter, letting them assess Nikolai in silence. The monitors are still beeping steadily. Nikolai hasn’t stirred. Irina greets them politely, professionally, keeping her distance but watching everything.
I hear Nadya’s footsteps before I see her.
