Bratva Bidder (Buryakov Bratva #1)

Chapter 1 Nadya

NADYA

You’d think being sold would come with some numbness—

But I feel every damn second of it.

The room on the other side of the curtain smells like money and men who’ve never been told no. I observe the people around me. The girls ahead of me are silent, glittering things lined up like prizes waiting to be claimed. Each time the curtain lifts, another one disappears.

One of the girls is shaking so hard her sequined dress quivers like glass.

Another catches my eye. Pretty. Young. Dressed in red like temptation gift wrapped. She’s shaking. Hands trembling like wind chimes.

Another girl sits to my right on a velvet bench, hugging her knees, mascara streaked down her cheeks. The one behind me mutters a prayer in Russian.

I don’t pray.

God turned his back on me a long time ago. And I’m not here for him.

There are so many girls here, it makes me sick to my stomach.

The air tastes like perfume, fear, and expensive wine. I hear muffled clapping from the other side of the curtain, laughter too loud to be anything but forced. It echoes off marble and blood money.

When the next girl vanishes behind the curtain, I take a half step forward. My heels are too high. My dress too tight. The fabric pulls across my ribs like a leash.

This wasn’t made to be worn by anyone free.

The hallway curves behind the stage, dimly lit, all velvet drapes and gold trim, like we’re backstage at a cursed opera.

Ahead, the curtain pulses faintly, backlit by the cold white glare of spotlights.

Beyond it, the crowd. The auction. The reason I’m wearing a dress that barely qualifies as fabric, and heels sharp enough to slice a man open.

I don’t look at the stage.

Instead, I stare at the floor. One polished black tile after another.

And I think about my son.

I think about the weight of his tiny hand on mine. The soft sound of his breathing when he sleeps. The way he smiled at me just last week, brave even when he was in pain.

I think about how this—this—is the only reason I’m still standing.

I feel my father before I hear him. He steps out of the shadows, his suit rumpled, his tie undone like he couldn’t be bothered to pretend he’s not falling apart.

His face is red and sweating under the low amber lights, and the fingers that clamp around my forearm are shaking just enough to betray the fear he pretends he doesn’t feel.

His fingers grip my arm like he still owns a piece of me. Maybe he does. Maybe that’s why I don’t tear his hand off the way I want to.

“You know the deal,” he says, voice low in my ear. “Don’t speak. Don’t flinch. Don’t ruin this for us.”

Us.

The word makes me want to scream.

“I’m not some show pony,” I mutter, yanking my arm out of his grip.

“No,” he says, his lip curling. “You’re an investment. And you’re about to pay off.”

My blood runs cold.

I don’t answer. There’s nothing left to say to a man who can hand his daughter to a room full of criminals with less emotion than he gives his bookies.

He steps back into the dark. Disappears. Like he always does when things get ugly.

I fix the strap of my dress. It’s black, silk, and slithers down my body like oil. Sleek. Expensive. Designed to distract. But all I can feel is exposed.

My attention turns back to the auction. They’re bidding on the girl before me now. She’s tall, blonde, with trembling hands and a fixed, empty smile. I don’t know her name. None of us share those. Doesn’t matter. We’re not here to make friends.

We’re here to be sold.

I hear the auctioneer’s voice rise with fake charm, coaxing higher numbers out of bored men in tailored suits. “Lot eighteen, gentlemen. Unspoiled. Trained in three languages. Look at those legs…”

My stomach flips. I glance down at my own dress again. It fits like second skin and leaves nothing to the imagination. My hair’s been curled, lips stained deep red, heels sharp enough to pierce bone.

I hate all of it.

She walks past me as the curtain closes behind her. The girl. Lot eighteen. Her eyes are glassy. She looks…not broken, but shelved. Like she’s floated outside her own body and doesn’t want to come back in.

The stage manager nods at me next. Lot nineteen. My turn.

I take one breath, then another. And I step onto the stage.

The lights hit me like a slap.

Blinding. Hot. White. I blink against the onslaught but keep walking, one slow step at a time, like I’m not walking into the belly of a wolf pack.

The venue is a secret one, buried beneath a luxury hotel in downtown Los Angeles—underground, both literally and legally.

Red velvet lines the walls. The floor is obsidian-black marble.

A glass chandelier hangs overhead, shimmering with blood-colored light.

The room itself is shaped like an amphitheater, every seat designed to look down on the stage.

On me.

I can’t see faces—not clearly—but I feel them. Dozens of them. Watching. Judging.

Bratva men, mostly. Buryakov affiliates. Some allies from other syndicates. Every single one of them dangerous. Powerful. Predatory.

The announcer says something smooth and vile to warm up the room, but I don’t hear him. My pulse is pounding too loud.

I stop at the center of the stage and raise my chin. My body is tense. My spine straight. Every part of me radiates what I want them to believe—that I chose this. That I’m in control.

A lie, of course. But a beautiful one.

I glance to the side. The girl who went before me is still standing offstage, her buyer’s name already being logged. A new girl follows behind me, eyes wide and hollow.

We’re not names here. We’re numbers. Lots. Merchandise.

And the worst part? Some of them want this.

Some of them think this is their shot at luxury, protection, even love.

I know better.

The spotlight pins me in place as the announcer’s voice slithers across the room like smoke. I don’t listen. I don’t need to.

“Gentlemen,” he purrs, “lot nineteen. A rare offering from within our own circles. Nadya Makarova—daughter of Pyotr Makarov, former consigliere to the Buryakov Bratva. Old blood. Bratva-born. She comes with pedigree, poise, and potential.”

I taste blood in my mouth from biting my tongue.

“Untouched.”

I taste blood in my mouth from biting my tongue. Untouched. That’s what sells, right?

“She’s here on behalf of her family,” he continues. “A legacy name. A Bratva daughter—one who understands discretion and obedience. Strong enough to survive, soft enough to please.”

The crowd murmurs, amused. Approving.

My fists curl, hidden by the folds of my dress.

“And of course,” the auctioneer finishes, “she comes with no ties. No past. A clean slate. For the man who wins her tonight—she becomes whatever you want her to be.”

I close my eyes. Just for a second.

Two nights ago. My apartment.

My father pushed the door open before I could chain it, stumbling inside like he still had the right to walk through my life. Pyotr Makarov, once known for his cold cunning, now just a man sweating desperation through his stained collar.

“They’re going to kill me,” he said before I could speak. “And if I’m gone, you think that boy of yours is getting that surgery? You think you’ll keep your job?”

My blood ran cold. “Get out.”

But he kept coming. Cornered me against the kitchen counter, arms braced on either side. “You want Nikolai to live? You want that medication? That surgeon? I can make it happen.”

“Don’t you dare say his name.”

“I will burn every connection you have if you don’t listen to me,” he hissed. “No charity is going to cover that heart. You’re out of time, Nadya.”

He pulled a small envelope from his coat and laid it on the table between us. My name. A time. A location.

“Auction night,” he said softly. “Your one chance to pay everything off. With one night. One man.”

I stared at him, tears stinging my eyes. “You’re not serious.”

“I already gave them your name,” he said. “You don’t show up, the deal dies. Is it unconventional? Sure. But it’ll pay the debt.”

I’d laughed. Bitter and ugly. “You’re insane.”

“Then let me be insane,” he snapped. “But you don’t have a choice. You think that hospital’s going to keep treating your son out of charity? You think those specialists are going to take your IOUs?”

Pyotr had seen the hesitation in my eyes. And he pounced.

“You go up there. You make yourself pretty. You last a few months, tops. That’s all they want. You do this, and your son gets what he needs. Or you can stay here and watch him die on a waiting list.”

And then he’d given me the smile. The one I’d grown up hating.

The one that always came after he said something vile and wanted credit for keeping it “civil.”

“I’m doing this for you,” he said.

No, I’d thought. You’re doing this to me.

But in the end…I said yes.

Because the worst part was that he wasn’t wrong. No one else was coming to save us.

I open my eyes, and the room is still here. The stage. The marble. The low murmurs of power deciding my fate. I feel like I’m underwater—every sound distorted, every moment stretched too thin.

The announcer is calling out numbers now. I don’t track them. I just breathe. One breath. Then another.

I’m not here for them.

I’m not here for Pyotr.

I’m here for Nikolai.

My son.

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 call two million small. 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.”

“Six five.”

The man in the charcoal suit tilts his head slightly, amused, and calls out, “Eight.”

The room quiets. Other bidders hesitate.

I close my eyes, trying to stay steady on my feet.

Not him. Anyone but him.

The auctioneer beams. “Eight, gentlemen. Eight million for lot nineteen. Do I hear eight point five?”

Silence.

A heavy, expectant kind.

I feel the shift. The way the room subtly leans in his direction, ready to concede. And he knows it. That smug, twisted smile spreads wider across his face as he leans back in his seat, the picture of confidence.

My stomach turns. He’s going to win me.

My body tenses like it already knows what that will mean. I can feel it in my bones—the violence, the power games, the slow erasure of every piece of me. I swallow hard, fighting the instinct to run, knowing there’s nowhere to go.

The auctioneer lifts the gavel. “Going once…”

My breath catches.

“Going tw—”

“Ten.”

Whoever says the number doesn’t shout it, but he doesn’t need to. Silence descends over the room.

The crowd jolts. The auctioneer’s voice stutters. “Ten…million?”

Even the broken-nose man turns his head sharply, his eyes narrowing.

I blink, stunned. Who—?

My eyes scan the crowd, heartbeat thudding against my ribs. Row after row of suits and shadows blur past until—

There. Back row.

He’s not leaning forward like the others. Not holding a paddle. Just sitting. Composed. Still. As if this entire night is just a formality he’s been waiting to end.

The spotlight shifts slightly, catching on his face.

Him.

He’s younger than most here. Thirties, maybe. Dark blond hair, sharp jaw, blue eyes that glow like ice through shadow. His expression is unreadable, but his presence is unmistakable. The kind of stillness that screams danger more than motion ever could.

And the moment our eyes meet—

Something hits me.

A jolt. Not recognition, not exactly. But something close. Like a memory I can’t place. Like a shadow on the edge of a dream.

For one breathless second, everything else disappears. The room. The crowd. The bidding. It’s just him and me, and a flicker of something I can’t explain tightening in my chest.

Who are you?

I know this man.

He’s the father of my children.