Page 9 of Bratva Bidder
“Six.”
“Six five.”
Kirov raises his paddle. “Eight million,” he says, practically licking his teeth. I wish I had killed Kirov so he wouldn’t be able to sit here and look at her like this.
Nadya’s gaze doesn’t move. But I see it—the flicker in her throat. The way her hand twitches ever so slightly. She sees him. She’s hoping he doesn’t win.
I reach for the mic on my box, thumb brushing the button.
And I say?—
“Ten.”
A stillness drops over the room like ice. And for the first time tonight, her eyes lift—toward me.
And I swear…for just one second?—
She looks like she’s seen a ghost.
“Ten million,” I say.
The room stills.
Even the auctioneer stumbles. “T-Ten million from the private gallery. Do I hear?—”
“Eleven five,” Kirov snaps.
The air shifts again. The crowd reacts—some quietly entertained, others intrigued. This isn’t normal. Most buyers know when to back off. But this man?
He’s pushing. Hard.
Nadya doesn’t move, but I see it—the flicker of tension in her shoulders. She knows exactly what it would mean to go with him.
I grit my teeth. I hate the man. Like me, he’s also a bastard. Former Spetsnaz.
Dishonorably discharged after he slit a commanding officer’s throat in a training exercise—off record, of course. The Bratva picked him up before the blood dried and set him loose in places no one wanted to be seen. He’s not a strategist. He’s not a diplomat. He’s a weapon that never got the command to stand down.
They say he once tortured a man for three days in a steel shipping crate—just because he looked at his mistress the wrong way. Took his ears first. Then his tongue. Then his skin.
And now he’s obviously set his eyes on a bigger prize. Too bad I’m not going to let him have her.
The auctioneer is loving it now, trying to milk the drama. “Eleven five, gentlemen! Do I hear?—”
“Fifteen,” I say flatly.
That wipes the grin off Kirov’s face.
A murmur ripples through the crowd. A few men glance up toward me now, trying to get a better look. Lev shifts beside me, unimpressed. The auctioneer stutters, caught off guard.
“Fifteen from the gallery. Going once…”
I hold Kirov’s stare. Daring him. Daring him to keep bidding.
He lowers his paddle.
The gavel falls.Crack.
“Sold to the gentleman in the gallery. Lot nineteen is sold.”
