Page 126 of Bratva Bidder
No. No. That’s not possible.
The hallway narrows. Sounds blur. I feel the world slow around me like a movie slipping off the reel.
“Nikolai…” I breathe.
“What’s wrong?” Nadya asks sharply, stepping closer. “Konstantin?”
But I’m not listening. I’m already turning. The man is gone—vanished around a corner—but the image is burned into my skull.
Something’s not right.
Something is terribly, dangerously wrong.
By the time I push open the door to Nikolai’s room, I’m already breathless. But it’s not exhaustion that knocks the wind from me.
It’s Irina.
She’s the first thing I see—standing at the far end of the room, her back pressed to the wall, arms wrapped around Mila like a shield. Her face is pale, lips parted in silent horror. The air in the room feels thick, like something poisonous has seeped in and rooted itself in every corner.
My head snaps around.
And that’s when I see him.
Sitting on the bed—the man who has haunted every dark instinct I’ve ever tried to bury. Dmitry Buryakov.
My father.
Cool as winter, dressed in tailored charcoal and a coat too fine for the hour. His legs are crossed casually, one arm resting behind Nikolai, the other hand resting lightly on the boy’s knee as if he belongs there—as if heeverhad a right.
And then his voice, smooth and venom-laced.
“Hello, Konstantin.”
27
NADYA
I cometo a dead stop behind Konstantin, my heart slamming against my ribs so hard it almost hurts. I don’t see anything at first—just Irina, frozen in place, clutching Mila like the world is ending. Her arms are wrapped so tightly around my daughter, I almost call out to her, ask what’s wrong.
And then I seehim.
Dmitry Buryakov.
Sitting on Nikolai’s bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world. One leg crossed, hand resting on my son’s knee, his other arm sprawled out behind him in mock comfort. My blood turns to ice. I feel it flood through me, burning and freezing all at once.
He looks up, that calculating gaze sweeping lazily across the room until it lands on Konstantin. He smiles.
“Hello, Konstantin,” he says, his voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous.
I can feel Konstantin tense beside me. Every part of him stills. He doesn’t speak right away, just breathes like he’s trying tosteady something threatening to break loose. I glance up at him, see the strain in his jaw, the flinch in his hand.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he finally says, and his voice…it’s wrong. Too even. Too quiet.
Dmitry doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. He just glances back at Nikolai, brushing a finger down his sleeve like he’s straightening the jacket of a child he’s known his whole life.
“Visiting my grandson,” he replies, tone syrupy and cold. “He’s a handsome boy. Strong. Like his father.”
I can’t take it. The sight of his hand on Nikolai’s arm, the sound of his voice in this room, with our children—I snap.
