Page 147 of Bratva Bidder
I’m still staring through the glass at Nikolai when the thought slips out of me—quiet, but not unintentional.
“I’m surprised Alexei isn’t here,” I murmur, wiping at the corner of my eye. “Or his mother.”
There’s a pause behind me. A silence that makes me glance over my shoulder.
Konstantin’s jaw tightens slightly, his gaze still fixed on his father’s unmoving form through the second pane of glass. “His mother doesn’t do hospitals,” he says at last, his voice low and edged. “Not unless it’s her name on the file.”
I blink. “She knows he’s here, right?”
He nods, but there’s something distant about the motion. “She knows. She just…doesn’t care to watch him bleed.”
That hits me harder than I expect. I look back at Dmitry—this man who’s caused us so much pain, who somehow also saved my son today. And I realize how strange it is, how twisted and warped this family has become. There’s no warmth. No gathering around the wounded. Just absence.
“Also the fact that she completely hates my guts,” Konstantin says. “I’m a constant reminder that her husband stepped out of their perfect marriage. He basically flaunted my mother in her face for years.”
Yet she still stuck with him, I think. What was it for? Love? Power?
“And Alexei?” I ask gently.
Konstantin exhales through his nose. “Maybe he didn’t want to see his father like this. Maybe he thought it would look like weakness.” He finally looks at me then. “Or maybe he just couldn’t handle it.”
I nod slowly, even though I’m not sure I understand. “That’s not weakness,” I say.
“No,” Konstantin says. “But in this family, it’s hard to tell the difference.”
The coffee is lukewarm by the time I make it back up the elevator. A sandwich is balanced on top of the tray, napkins folded neatly like the act of care might make everything feelnormal for a few minutes. Lev is still stationed outside Nikolai’s room, arms folded, eyes alert despite the long hours. He nods at me but doesn’t speak. I offer a small smile in return and continue down the hallway.
Konstantin left to deal with something—business, he said, though I didn’t ask what kind. I know better. There’s a tension in his shoulders that no amount of quiet time in the hospital waiting lounge can ease. And for all his hardness, he’s still just a man watching his child survive on borrowed blood.
I slow my steps as I approach the other end of the floor. Dmitry’s room. The doctors said he might be conscious by now, if the sedation wore off the way they expected. A part of me isn’t sure why I care, but another part—the one still clinging to the fragile thread that saved my son—wants to say thank you again. Properly. Not in passing, not from a distance.
I don’t knock. I’m just about to push the door open when it opens from the inside and Alexei nearly crashes into me.
We both freeze.
“You scared me,” I say, stepping back, hand tightening on the tray.
Alexei exhales, his usual cocky mask absent. He looks tired, even older somehow. There’s a weight on his shoulders that wasn’t there the last time I saw him.
“When did you get here?” I ask.
“Just now,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair. His tone is casual, but his eyes flicker to the door behind him.
I narrow mine slightly. “Were you just sitting with him?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Then he sighs. “Yeah. But don’t tell my dad I was here. He told me to stay away.”
I blink. “He what?”
“He told me to stay away.” His voice is quiet now. Almost small. “Didn’t want me here. Said I wouldn’t understand.”
I stare at him, stunned. “He’s your father.”
“Yeah, well.” Alexei forces out a bitter laugh. “Doesn’t always mean the door’s open.”
There’s too much in that one sentence—resentment, loyalty, hurt. Things I’m not sure he knows how to say aloud. Things I’ve heard in Konstantin’s voice too.
“I’m not here to cause problems,” he adds quickly. “I just needed to see him. Even if it’s just for a minute.”
