Page 71 of Bratva Bidder
“What’s your name?” she asks, tilting her head.
I pause. And then I say, softly, carefully, “Konstantin.”
She smiles shyly, rocking on her heels. “That’s a big name.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, barely breathing. “It is.”
She tilts her head up at me again, like she’s trying to decide if I’m safe or not.
“What are you doing here?” I ask her softly.
“I’m here for my brother,” she says, matter-of-fact.
A breath leaves me. “Your brother?”
She nods. “He’s sick again.
I glance around the corridor. No sign of Nadya.
“How did you get down here?” I ask slowly.
She points a tiny finger toward the stairwell at the end of the hall. “I took the steps. The elevator’s slow.”
Of course she did.
I press a hand to my temple, rising to my feet. “And where is he now?”
“Upstairs,” she says easily. “Room four-twelve.”
Four-twelve.
It hits me harder than it should. I don’t need Lev’s intel anymore. It’s right here, standing in front of me, looking like my mother with wide, guileless eyes.
“Alright,” I say. “Let’s go back.”
She slips her small hand into mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And I let her.
We take the stairs, her skipping one or two steps at a time, still clutching the plush fox like it holds her together. I try not to overthink how comfortable she seems beside me. I try not to think at all.
But it’s impossible.
She has my blood. Which means…
We reach the fourth floor. The girl stops at a door and pushes it open.
The moment I step inside, everything changes.
There’s a small boy curled up in a hospital bed, thin, pale, an oxygen tube threaded beneath his nose. Machines beep steadily around him, far too many for someone so small. There’s an IV drip, monitors, a tray of uneaten food beside the bed.
And then I see her.
A woman in her early fifties straightens from the chair near the window—protective, alert. Her eyes widen when she sees me.
She recognizes me immediately. “Mr. Buryakov,” she says quietly, warily. “What are you doing here?”
I blink at her.Buryakov.
