Page 81 of Bratva Bidder
“No,” I admit, still groggy. “Not exactly the mob boss image.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I think I can handle it. Pretty sure he doesn’t bite.”
“Seriously?” I tilt my head, studying him.
He doesn’t smile. His gaze dips to Nikolai, his expression softening into something I’m not sure I’ve ever seen on his face.
“I can’t lose more time with my son,” he says, so quietly it nearly gets lost beneath the hum of the machines. “I’ve already missed five years.”
Something in my chest gives a slow, reluctant tug. I try not to let it show.
Instead, I slip carefully off the bed and adjust the blankets around Nikolai. I don’t want to leave, not really. But I know Irinawill be back soon. I know Mila is likely curled up at the estate, probably asking for me in her sleep.
I straighten, brushing hair off my face, and glance at him.
“Last night must’ve been a fluke,” I say lightly, reaching for my jacket. “Don’t worry. I get it. You’re not here for me. You’re here for your children. Your heir.”
He glances up sharply at that, something flickering behind his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything.
I don’t wait for him to.
“Don’t let the monitors intimidate you,” I say, breezing past him toward the door. “They’re louder than they look.”
“Nadya,” he says behind me.
I stop, my hand on the handle, but I don’t turn around.
“Lev will drive you home,” he says.
I nod once, keeping my face carefully blank, and step out into the corridor—telling myself again and again that this is what I wanted.
The ride back to the estate is quiet, save for Lev’s usual scattered commentary. He doesn’t press me with questions, thank God—just fills the silence with his own thoughts about the weather, LA traffic, and something about a German shepherd puppy he once tried to smuggle through customs.
I rest my head against the window, letting his voice wash over me. He doesn’t pry. He never really does. He seems to instinctively understand what people can and can’t handle, and right now, I’m grateful for that.
“I gotta say, though,” he says after a few minutes, flashing a grin as he turns into the long driveway, “that little girl of yours? Mila? Total heartbreaker. She had every one of the kitchen staff wrapped around her little finger before breakfast.”
I can’t help it—I smile. A real one.
“She’s stubborn,” I say softly. “Knows exactly what she wants.”
“She get that from you or her father?”
I glance sideways at him, and his grin fades slightly. “Sorry. None of my business.”
“It’s okay,” I murmur.
We don’t speak again until the car rolls to a stop under the estate’s covered entrance. I thank him quietly before heading inside, my limbs heavy, my thoughts heavier.
The house is still. Sunlight spills in through the massive windows, warming the marble floors. I head straight to my room, kicking off my shoes the moment the door closes behind me. The hot shower feels like redemption—washing away the hospital scent, the emotional weight, the cold cling of rain. I stand there longer than I probably should, water pouring over my head, my face, my back.
When I finally step out and towel off, everything feels…quieter. A pause before the next shift.
I dress quickly—something soft, comfortable, ordinary—and pad barefoot down the stairs toward the kitchen.
Mila’s already at the table, swinging her legs from her chair, a plate of scrambled eggs in front of her. The sight of her—safe, fed, grinning at the cook like they’re old friends—makes something knot in my chest.
“Mommy!” she shouts when she sees me.
