Page 134 of Bratva Bidder
She lets out a sound—half laugh, half sigh—and then it turns quiet again. The kind of quiet that isn’t awkward, but weighty. Like there’s something she’s holding in, trying to decide if it’s worth saying aloud.
“I wish we had a real ceremony,” she says, barely louder than the hum of the engine.
I glance at her, not quite sure I heard her right. “You mean…at the church?”
She gives a small shake of her head, eyes fixed on the road like she’s regretting opening her mouth at all. “Forget it. It’s a silly thought.”
But it’s not.
I turn more fully toward her, one arm draped across the back of her seat. “You mean you wanted all of it? The flowers. The vows. The dress. The slow first dance we’d both pretend not to hate?”
She smiles faintly but doesn’t meet my eyes. “I’m not the wedding type, Konstantin. I don’t even know what made me say it.”
But I do. I can feel it, because it hits the same hollow space in my chest I never knew existed until she filled it. The way we got married—it wasn’t nothing. But it wasn’t what she deserved. Not a ceremony. Not a moment that was just about her. About us. Without blood in the background or threats on the horizon.
“I’m not the wedding type either,” I say slowly, “but if I could do it again…”
She looks at me now, the road forgotten, her eyes searching mine.
“I’d give you the real thing,” I say. “Church bells, vows, your name echoing off stained glass if that’s what you want.”
I rest my hand lightly on her thigh. “It’s not a silly thought, Nadya. Not to me.”
By the time we pull up to the clinic, the sun is already angling westward, casting long shadows across the sterile white facade. Nadya parks, killing the engine, and we walk in together, the silence between us not heavy, but alert—both of us on edge in ways we don’t have to speak aloud anymore.
The lobby is quiet, too quiet. A single receptionist sits behind the desk, clicking something into the system with half-heartedattention. When she sees us, she straightens up, smoothing her blouse like we’re here for a photo op.
“We’re here to see Dr. Levin,” I say, calm but firm.
Her fingers pause on the keyboard. “Oh. He just left.”
Nadya and I exchange a glance. I step forward. “What do you meanjust left?”
She frowns. “I mean…he walked out maybe five minutes ago. Didn’t say where he was going. Just packed up and left.”
“That’s not possible,” Nadya says. “We were just down the road. He knew we were coming.”
“He didn’t say anything. Just grabbed his things and walked out.” The receptionist shrugs like it’s above her pay grade to care.
I don’t wait for Nadya to catch up. I’m already turning on my heel and heading out the glass doors, eyes scanning the rows of parked cars in the adjacent lot. There—white coat, hunched shoulders, waiting by the side of the road.
“Dr. Levin!” I call out, loud enough to make him flinch.
He freezes mid-step, and when he turns, his expression says it all—guilt, fear, the same tight grimace I’ve seen on men one second before they piss themselves.
“Wait,” I say, striding up to him. “What the hell is going on? We had an appointment.”
He freezes. “Look—I don’t want any trouble, alright?”
Nadya is just behind me, quiet and watchful, arms crossed.
“You’re already in trouble,” I say, slow and clear, “if you think walking out without seeing my son is going to sit well with me.”
“I—I’m sorry,” he stammers, his keys trembling in his hand. “I didn’t know what else to do. I was told—someone said it’d be in my best interest if I left town. That I shouldn’t get involved.”
My jaw clenches. “Who?”
“I don’t know!” he says quickly, too quickly. “I just got a call last night. Voice modulated, maybe recorded. They said they knew where my daughter went to school. I have a family.”
