Page 14 of Bratva Bidder
“You breathe a word about them,” he says, ignoring my words, “and everything you’ve done—everything you’ve sacrificed—will be for nothing. You hear me?”
“I hear you.”
“Good,” he says. “Because whatever you think Konstantin is, he’s worse. And if he finds out he’s been lied to—about something like that?”
He doesn’t finish the sentence.
He just leaves.
The silence after my father leaves feels like static in my chest.
I’m still standing in the middle of the room, staring at nothing, when there’s another knock—softer this time. Polite, even.
The door opens before I can answer, and a man steps inside.
He’s tall, maybe late thirties, dressed in all black with a bulletproof calm about him. Short beard, gray eyes that missnothing. But unlike everyone else I’ve encountered tonight, he doesn’t radiate cruelty.
“I’m Lev. Konstantin sent me to escort you.”
I take a second to study him. There’s something about the way he speaks—measured, unhurried, like he’s done this a thousand times but doesn’t hate me for needing an introduction.
I nod, grabbing the black leather jacket folded on the nearby chair and slipping it on. “Lead the way, Lev.”
As we walk, the hall is quieter than I expected, the clamor of the auction faded into the marble.
Lev glances sideways. “You settling in okay?”
I give him a look.
He chuckles. “Bad question.”
“A little,” I admit. “At least I’m out of that dress.”
He smiles, easy. “I’ll admit, the jeans are more intimidating. They make you look like someone who bites back.”
“And what—Konstantin prefers obedience?”
“Not exactly,” he says, thoughtful. “He prefers fire. But only if you know how to control the burn.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That sounds like something he’d say.”
Lev laughs. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
We walk a few more steps in silence. Then?—
“So, what do you think of him?” he asks casually.
I stop mid-step and look at him, one hand on my hip. “Did he send you to do recon for him?”
Lev grins. “Maybe. Maybe I’m just friendly.”
“Well, tell him this,” I say. “If he wants to know what I think of him, he can ask me himself.”
“I’ll be sure to pass that along,” he says, clearly amused.
When we round the bend, I see him—the broken-nose man from the auction who looked at me like a prize wrapped in defiance. He leans against a column, speaking quietly to someone I don’t recognize, but his gaze slides straight to me. Unapologetic. Lingering. Dissecting.
My skin crawls. “Who the hell is that?” I mutter.
