Chapter 2 Konstantin
KONSTANTIN
“You don’t think this is insane?”
Lev shifts in the passenger seat, glancing at me like I’ve lost whatever pieces of my mind he thought I had left.
He’s been with me for eight years. Loyal, flexible, knows when to shut up—but this time he just can’t help himself.
“I mean,” he adds, “I’ve seen you walk into gunfire calmer than this.”
I adjust the cuffs of my shirt. “Gunfire’s predictable.”
Lev snorts. “And buying a woman at an underground auction run by Bratva washouts isn’t?”
“I’m not buying a woman,” I say. “I’m buying leverage.”
He gives me a look. “You sound like your father.”
I let that hang in the air. It’s not a compliment.
The blacked-out car rolls down Olympic Boulevard, the city lights slashing through the tinted windows like slow strobes. Downtown Los Angeles is always alive—pulsing, breathing, hiding monsters in its bones. I know them. I’ve done business with them. I’ve burned some of them down.
“Do you know how many women will be there tonight?” Lev continues. “Dozens. You could have any of them. Or none of them. And yet…”
“And yet,” I repeat, voice low.
He sighs like he wants to say more but thinks better of it. We’ve known each other too long to pretend he doesn’t understand. He does. He just doesn’t like it.
Neither do I.
I’m not the type to show up at an auction, let alone buy a woman like property. I’ve seen what that does to men. It erodes the parts of them that still resemble anything human. But tonight’s not about pleasure or dominance.
The streets outside the car are bathed in sodium light, city grime sparkling like glass shards on pavement.
We’re five minutes from the auction’s location—an old theater buried beneath layers of legal gray zones and armed silence.
The Buryakov-aligned groups use it for transactions like this.
Rare offerings. Political reshuffling. Acquisitions in satin and heels.
I’m not interested in most of the lots.
I came for one.
“I still think this is fucking insane,” Lev mutters as he flips the visor down, even though there’s no sun and no reason. That’s how I know he’s nervous—his tells are small, like mine.
“You don’t have to come in,” I say.
He snorts. “That’s not going to happen. I come everywhere with you.”
I chuckle. “I can handle myself in there, Lev.”
“That I know,” he says.
“The girl on auction tonight, that’s his daughter, right?” I ask.
“Yes, Nadya. Kept out of sight. Raised quiet. Some whispers say she used to be engaged to a high-tier bratishka, but it fell through after Makarov pissed off the wrong people. Word is, she’s not here by choice.”
That settles something in my gut.
Not pity.
Just…interest.
Makarov was always reckless. He’d trade his teeth for chips at a table. But selling his daughter? That’s a new level of filth.
“Her father is an idiot,” Lev continues. “Gambled his way through every safe house from Brighton to Kiev. Owes half the underworld his spine.”
“Pull her file,” I say.
Lev blinks. “You’re serious.”
I don’t answer, because the car is pulling into the underground garage. Security meets us at the elevator. Scans us. Nods us through.
Lev leans in. “This kind of move? It’s going to get you noticed.”
“That’s the point.”
“And what if you win her?” he asks, quieter now. “Then what?”
I glance at him as the elevator doors close. “Then we see if she’s a weapon,” I say. “Or a liability.”
The moment I step inside, the stench of money and rot hits me like smoke.
Everything is gilded—chandeliers dripping with light, gold trim on the walls, hand-stitched velvet seats arranged like pews around a stage designed for sin.
Skimpily dressed girls in heels and lingerie glide through the aisles, balancing crystal trays of cigars and champagne.
Their smiles are painted on, their eyes vacant.
A few of the older men reach for them like they’re tasting fruit at a market.
It makes my stomach turn.
My mother would have spit on this place.
She died when I was twelve. Gentle hands, iron spine. She used to say, “A man’s power means nothing if he doesn’t know what it’s for.” Dmitry never listened.
Neither did most of the bastards here.
I adjust my cuffs and move toward the upper gallery. Lev trails beside me in silence now, absorbing the tension. I slide into a private booth overlooking the stage just as a girl is being led offstage.
Applause echoes—half-hearted, vulgar.
Then the air changes. Buzz rolls through the room like electricity.
I hear the whispers.
“Makarov’s girl, isn’t it?”
“The daughter?”
“Pyotr must be out of his mind…”
“They say she refused the offer twice. Poor girl’s being forced into it. Makes her even more valuable.”
“Bet she’s got fire.”
The tone is casual. Like they’re discussing livestock. Or cigars.
I feel my pulse tick. Sharks. All of them.
I know why they want her, Makarov’s daughter. Pyotr is an animal, but he has the right blood. Old Bratva. Ruthless. Feared. That kind of legacy still means something in rooms like this.
And if I’m honest with myself—
I want her for the same reason.
Not for love. Not for pity. But because owning a weapon like her means no one else gets to. Because there’s power in what she represents. Control in what she can become.
There are a few familiar faces in the crowd. Faces I’d rather see through a rifle scope.
There’s Gennady, a bloated bastard who sold off his mistress’s daughter last year for a gambling debt. Next to him, Kirov—ex-military, kicked out for killing a superior and kept around by the Bratva because he’s good at making people disappear. I gave him that broken nose.
As if sensing my gaze on him, he turns to glare at me. Motherfucker.
The auctioneer steps into the spotlight, voice smooth as lacquered sin.
“And now, gentlemen…the final lot of the evening. Lot nineteen.”
The curtain parts, and she steps onto the stage.
She doesn’t walk—she arrives.
For a split second, I don’t think anything at all. My mind goes still—quiet in a way it never is. Because every inch of the woman stepping into the spotlight seems carved for war and worship both.
Tall. Proud. Regal.
Long dark hair is pulled back to expose the line of her throat. A black silk dress clings to her like shadows—slit high enough to be daring, cut low enough to silence the room. She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t flinch. Her expression is unreadable, but her eyes burn beneath the lights.
She looks like a queen standing in a den of jackals.
And fuck me—
Something inside me moves.
Not lust. Not power.
Recognition, or something like it. A twitch in my chest. A pull I don’t understand.
I lean forward slightly, trying to place her.
I’ve seen her file, read her details. But the photos didn’t capture this.
They didn’t capture the fury simmering beneath the composure.
The way she holds herself like she’s not being sold—she’s being chosen, and the one who wins her better know what the fuck he’s getting into.
Lev breathes low beside me. “That’s her.”
“I know,” I murmur.
He side-eyes me. “You okay?”
I nod, but I’m not really listening.
She doesn’t look afraid.
She looks furious. Like this whole auction is an insult she’s allowing—for now.
“Are you seriously doing it?” Lev says. “Are you really going to bid on her?”
I don’t answer. Because I’m already watching the bids rise.
“Four million.”
“Four point five.”
“Five.”
“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.”
Just like that—it’s done.
She’s mine.
I watch her as the spotlight dims. She doesn’t collapse. Doesn’t cry. She simply turns, regal to the last, and walks offstage like a queen walking into exile.
I’ve been in rooms like this my whole life. Watched women go from people to property with a raise of a paddle. It never stirred anything in me. Never broke through the ice.
But her? There’s something there. I don’t know what it is yet, but I plan to find out.
Lev mutters, “Well. That was dramatic.”
I ignore him. “Get the car. Tell security she’s coming with us. No delays. If anyone objects, remind them what happens when someone interferes with a Buryakov transaction.”
He’s already on the move.
I stay behind for just a second longer, because the curtain behind the stage is still swaying, and when I look up, she’s still watching me. I feel a thrill go down my spine.
This is going to be fun.