Page 4 of Bratva Bidder
And I’ll sell every piece of myself if it means he gets to live.
They tell you not to look the wolves in the eye. But it’s hard not to when they’re all staring at you from behind their crystal glasses, their tailored suits, their thrones carved from blood and cash.
The floors are black marble. The ceiling domed and frescoed with angels—mocking, ironic. Gold trim glitters on the red velvet walls, and the chandelier above sparkles like crushed diamonds. It’s the kind of place meant for royalty.
Or, in this case, monsters.
This is no ordinary charity event. It’s an illicit underground bride auction, orchestrated by smaller criminal outfits aligned with the Buryakov Bratva. Wealthy men—and the occasional woman—bid on contracts. Not bodies, exactly. Not slaves, technically. But contracts that bind the purchased “bride” to the winner under mafia-sanctioned rules. Obedience. Access. Control. Legally gray. Morally black as hell.
Every girl on this stage is meant to become a possession. A plaything. A tool. A price paid, a problem solved.
Some are looking for obedient wives. Others want hostages. And a few, judging by their eyes, are here purely to own something soft they can destroy slowly.
I glance at the row of bidders—older men in Brioni suits and Bratva rings, cartel thugs pretending to be aristocrats, the occasional woman with diamonds sharp enough to gut someone.
They raise numbered paddles.
The numbers start small—if you can calltwo millionsmall. The moment the auctioneer says it, a paddle rises near the front row. White-gloved hands. Gold watch.
“Two million,” the man calls, and it begins.
Another paddle lifts across the aisle. “Two point five.”
“Three.”
“Three five.”
A rhythm forms—hands, numbers, nods, counteroffers.
I keep my face neutral, chin high, eyes forward. But I can’t stop my gaze from drifting across the room, each bidder a profile carved from stone and sin.
And then I see him.
Fourth row. Center. A man with a buzz cut, wide jaw, and a broken nose that’s clearly been shattered more than once. His suit is charcoal. His smile—if it can even be called that—is the kind predators make when the cage is already locked.
He’s watching me like he knows exactly what he’d do to me if I ended up in his hands.
I get a twisted feeling in my gut.No. Not him. Please, not him.
He lifts his paddle. “Four million.”
The auctioneer beams. “Four from the gentleman in the center. Do I hear four point five?”
Another bid comes in. A Bratva man I vaguely recognize from whispered conversations and careful avoidance. But it doesn’t matter. The man with the broken nose—he doesn’t blink.
“Five,” he calls, already lifting his paddle again.
My throat tightens. My stomach turns.
He wants me.
Not like a husband wants a wife. Not even like a collector wants something rare.
He wants to break me. I don’t know how I know. I just do.
“Five five.”
“Six.”
