Page 20 of Bratva Bidder
With a sigh, I dig out my phone from the bottom of my purse, turning it on low brightness so the room stays mostly dark. I pull up my photos first, because it’s easier to look at them than to think about everything else.
There they are. My whole world.
Nikolai with his wild dark hair and serious brown eyes that always seem too old for his tiny face. Mila with her messy curlsand the gap-toothed grin she flashes whenever she knows she’s about to get away with something. They’re only five years old but already smarter, braver, more stubborn than most adults I know.
I flip through picture after picture—Nikolai wearing his dinosaur pajamas, Mila painting his face with glittery makeup, both of them collapsed on the couch after a long day, arms tangled together in sleep.
I can feel the ache behind my ribs start to build, thick and heavy.
They need me. They need the money I can send from this deal. They need the medicine. The doctors. The future I promised them.
I swipe to another photo—Nikolai and Mira’s birthday party last month—and my thumb stills over the screen.
I’m doing this for them.
But when I finally put the phone down and sink back into the pillows, sleep still doesn’t come. Because even with everything on the line, even with the constant guilt gnawing at me, I can’t stop thinking about the way Konstantin kissed me.
I turn onto my side, squeezing my eyes shut.
But it’s no good. I can still feel the press of his lips on mine, the heat of his hand at the back of my neck, the way my pulse jumped under his thumb like it belonged to him.
And worst of all? I can’t decide if I hate him for it—or hate myself more for wanting it to happen again.
I twist under the covers, punching the pillow into a different shape for the fifth time, but it doesn’t matter. Sleep isn’t coming.It’s not just the unfamiliar room or the quiet humming of the house around me. It’s him. It’s the kiss. It’s everything about tonight dragging up memories I’ve spent years trying to bury.
I close my eyes, and despite myself, the past drags me under…
It was six years ago. Barcelona.
I was waitressing at a small restaurant tucked in the side streets of the Gothic Quarter, the kind of place tourists stumble into and locals know to avoid. The air was thick with the smell of garlic and grilled meat, and the fans overhead did little to chase away the heat.
He walked in like he didn’t belong there—because he didn’t. Tall, dangerous-looking even in a black T-shirt and worn jeans. He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to. He carried authority without speaking a word.
I noticed him the second he crossed the threshold, and when our eyes met across the room, it was like being punched in the chest.
He sat at a back table, away from the windows, one arm slung casually over the chair, eyes following me every time I moved. I tried not to look. I told myself not to care. But every time I dared glance his way, he was already watching me, steady and unblinking.
When I finally came to take his order, my hand wasn’t as steady as I wanted it to be. I tried to look bored, disinterested. It didn’t work.
“What’s your name?” he asked, voice low, calm, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to ask a stranger for something that personal.
“Nadya,” I said, hearing my own voice sound breathless and hating it.
He smiled then—just barely, a slow curve of his lips that made my knees lock to keep from stepping closer.
“Mikhail,” he lied, offering a name that rolled off his tongue easily. He didn’t offer a last name. Didn’t need to.
For a second, neither of us moved.
The tension was so thick, I swear the tiny restaurant faded away, leaving just the two of us, the space between us crackling with heat that had no business being there…
Now, I open my eyes again, blinking up at the ceiling.
He gave me a fake name. He never even trusted me with the real one.
I roll onto my side, facing the window where the sky is just starting to pale. I sit up in bed as the first light of dawn creeps into the room, casting long shadows across the thick carpet and gleaming off the edges of the furniture.
Sleep never came. Not even for a minute.
