Page 160 of Bratva Bidder
“He offered to be the donor,” Nadya says quietly. “That wasn’t a trick.”
“And you believe that?” Irina asks.
Nadya pauses. “I believe he doesn’t want to lose another son. And he saved my son’s life, and for that I’ll always be grateful to him.”
“Fair enough,” Irina concedes. “But don’t let your guard down, not even for a second. Peace with Dmitry Buryakov is a ceasefire, not a treaty.”
We’re all quiet for a moment. The firepit flares. Somewhere, someone laughs.
“I just want the kids to have this,” Nadya says, her voice soft. “A night where everything feels…good.”
“They will,” I say, pulling her a little closer. “Because we built it. Not him.”
Nadya sighs. “You’re right. It was my call to invite him here tonight, I’m not going to regret it. Besides look how much fun the kids are having with Alexei.”
I follow her gaze, and sure enough, Alexei now has Nikolai in his arms.
Irina waves to someone in the crowd and says, “I’ll be back soon.”
Nadya scans the tables like a general surveying the front lines. Then she tuts. “We’re running out of champagne. And the canapés are gone,” she says, already moving toward the house. “I’ll talk to the caterers.”
“Don’t terrify them,” I call after her, watching her go. The sway of her hips, the way she moves with so much intent—it’s almost funny.
I’m still smiling when Lev appears beside me, holding a glass he hasn’t sipped from. “You look almost relaxed,” he says.
“I’m trying to pretend that’s allowed,” I reply.
He gives a short nod, eyes flicking around. “Security’s tight. My men are posted outside the perimeter, just as you asked. We’re trying not to piss off the wrong guests.”
“Good,” I say. “It’s family night.”
“That’s what worries me.”
Before I can answer, there’s a faint crack almost too fast to register, whistling past my ear.
The hairs on my neck rise.
A second later, someone screams.
The glass in Lev’s hand shatters against the grass.
36
NADYA
I humto myself as I walk back toward the house, slipping past clusters of guests with a small smile on my face. For once, everything feels…easy. Peaceful.
The caterers are probably scrambling in the kitchen. I can already hear the low hum of their chatter through the hallway walls, and I’m just about to push through the swinging door when a hand clamps around my arm and yanks me hard.
I gasp, stumbling backward, disoriented. My heels scrape against the tile as I’m dragged into the narrow, shadowed corridor beside the pantry.
“What the—” I twist violently, already half-ready to strike, when I see the face.
Pyotr.
My father.
The air leaves my lungs in a rush. I go cold. “What the hell are you doing here?”
