Page 90 of Bratva Bidder
His lips twitch. “Keeping appearances.”
“Your hand is on my ass.”
“It’s a very convincing appearance,” he murmurs smoothly, eyes gleaming.
I elbow him—not hard, but with purpose.
He chuckles. Chuckles, the smug bastard, as he opens the restaurant door for me like he’s some gentleman and not a walking felony wrapped in a tailored coat.
We step inside, warm light washing over us, the scent of garlic and something expensive in the air. A hostess looks up, ready togreet us, and just like that, we slip into our roles again. Calm. Collected. Unbothered.
Except my pulse is thudding in my throat, and Konstantin’s palm still lingers on my lower back, like he can’t quite help himself.
“Don’t push it,” I murmur through a tight smile as the hostess leads us to a corner booth.
He leans in close, mouth near my ear. “You didn’t exactly stop me.”
“Oh, believe me, I will if you try it again.”
But the truth? My skin is still burning.
As we slide into the booth, I cast a quick glance outside. The SUV doesn’t park, but it slows as it passes.
They’re still watching.
I glance across the booth at Konstantin, who’s discreetly scanning the street, jaw set like iron. “We need to know who we’re dealing with,” I whisper, glancing casually around the crowded restaurant. “We can’t just guess.”
He looks at me sharply. “You have something in mind?”
“Stay here,” I say, already sliding smoothly out of the booth. “Pretend we’re fighting. It won’t be a stretch for you.”
He scowls, but I don’t wait for an answer—I slip around a passing waiter, weaving gracefully through the busy dining area toward the back corridor. I spot the narrow staircase to the second-floor dining balcony—a private area that overlooks the street below—and move quickly, pushing through the “Staff Only” sign like it isn’t even there.
Once upstairs, I swiftly step out onto the small balcony overlooking the outdoor seating. It’s deserted, thankfully. One quick glance down gives me a clear view of the street and the SUV idling across from the restaurant, just out of easy sight.
But not clear enough. I need faces.
I grip the edge of the balcony railing, quickly assessing my options. To the left, a narrow ledge runs around the outside wall. About six inches wide—barely enough to hold my weight, but enough.
I swing one leg over the railing, balancing carefully. My heart hammers, but my breath remains calm, even. I move swiftly, stepping onto the narrow ledge, one hand gripping the wall tightly for support. Adrenaline courses through me, sharpening my focus.
One step. Two.
Easy, Nadya. You’ve done worse than this.
The ledge feels slippery beneath my shoes, rain-soaked from earlier, but I keep my eyes fixed straight ahead, breathing slow and steady. I inch forward until I’m in position—perfectly hidden from view but with a clear vantage point of the SUV parked across the street.
I take my phone from my pocket, steadying myself. I open the camera, zooming in carefully, finger hovering, ready?—
And then the passenger-side door swings open.
My heart spikes. I lean forward, precariously balanced as a man emerges—tall, bulky, jacket pulled tight around his frame. He glances both ways up and down the street, revealing his face clearly.
I snap the picture, heart hammering.
Then a second man steps out from the driver’s side. Older, harder. Scar above his left eye. He walks around the car, speaking quietly to his companion. Another clear angle. Another quick snap.
I got them.
