Page 16 of Bratva Bidder
That it was nothing more than a forgotten lay in some other city, some other life.
My stomach twists, but I keep my face still. Blank.
He hands the pen back to the suit, leans slightly against the table, and I brace for the awkward silence to stretch between us?—
But then my father opens his mouth.
“So,” Pyotr says, suddenly full of greasy confidence, “I was thinking we should talk about the…extras.”
My eyes snap to him.
He smiles, that awful curling smirk I’ve hated since I was old enough to understand how manipulation worked.
“A girl like her—untouched, trained, Bratva lineage—you’re getting a hell of a deal. You’ve got to admit.”
Konstantin doesn’t react.
Pyotr pushes on. “You and I both know this isn’t about a contract. It’s about allegiance. About history. And for something this valuable…” He shrugs. “I think a little goodwill compensation is fair.”
I step forward, cold washing through me. “Are you serious?”
Pyotr ignores me.
I try again. “You’re trying to milk him now? Afterthis?”
Still nothing.
“You’re unbelievable,” I whisper, voice tight. “You sell me and now you want to upcharge like I’m a fucking?—”
“Don’t,” he snaps, finally turning to me. “This is between men. Stay out of it.”
My father’s greed is going to eat us both alive. What if Konstantin drops the deal? What if he’s decided I’m not worth it, after all? Worst of all, what if he decides to sell me…? No!
Before I can explode, Konstantin moves. “I’m going to stop you right there,” he says, voice like ice slicing through silk.
Pyotr falters.
Konstantin takes a step forward, not aggressive—just deliberate. “You came to me in desperation,” he says. “I made the offer, I won the bid. The terms are signed, and the transaction is complete.” He gestures toward me, subtle but unmistakable. “She belongs to me now. Not you.”
Pyotr opens his mouth.
“And if you ever speak about her like she’s a product again”—Konstantin’s voice lowers, almost intimate—“you’ll lose more than money.”
The silence crackles.
I blink, startled. For the first time all night, I don’t feel like property.
Pyotr grumbles something and slinks out, muttering under his breath.
Konstantin doesn’t speak. Neither does Lev.
They just start walking, and I fall into step beside them like it’s already been decided—because, in a way, it has.
The hallway is quiet, guarded at both ends by men with neutral faces and earpieces. The kind of quiet that costs money. The kind of security that doesn’t come cheap, even in Bratva circles.
Outside, the car waiting for us isn’t subtle.
It’s a jet-black Aston Martin Valkyrie, low to the ground and polished to a mirror shine, with a matte finish that probably costs more than the apartment I grew up in. It’s sleek and aggressive, clearly custom, and doesn’t belong to someone who blends into the background. Konstantin doesn’t strike me as flashy, but this car is a statement. A loud one.
