Chapter 3 Nadya #2
He’s tall, maybe late thirties, dressed in all black with a bulletproof calm about him. Short beard, gray eyes that miss nothing. But unlike everyone else I’ve encountered tonight, he doesn’t radiate cruelty.
“I’m Lev. Konstantin sent me to escort you.”
I take a second to study him. There’s something about the way he speaks—measured, unhurried, like he’s done this a thousand times but doesn’t hate me for needing an introduction.
I nod, grabbing the black leather jacket folded on the nearby chair and slipping it on. “Lead the way, Lev.”
As we walk, the hall is quieter than I expected, the clamor of the auction faded into the marble.
Lev glances sideways. “You settling in okay?”
I give him a look.
He chuckles. “Bad question.”
“A little,” I admit. “At least I’m out of that dress.”
He smiles, easy. “I’ll admit, the jeans are more intimidating. They make you look like someone who bites back.”
“And what—Konstantin prefers obedience?”
“Not exactly,” he says, thoughtful. “He prefers fire. But only if you know how to control the burn.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That sounds like something he’d say.”
Lev laughs. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
We walk a few more steps in silence. Then—
“So, what do you think of him?” he asks casually.
I stop mid-step and look at him, one hand on my hip. “Did he send you to do recon for him?”
Lev grins. “Maybe. Maybe I’m just friendly.”
“Well, tell him this,” I say. “If he wants to know what I think of him, he can ask me himself.”
“I’ll be sure to pass that along,” he says, clearly amused.
When we round the bend, I see him—the broken-nose man from the auction who looked at me like a prize wrapped in defiance. He leans against a column, speaking quietly to someone I don’t recognize, but his gaze slides straight to me. Unapologetic. Lingering. Dissecting.
My skin crawls. “Who the hell is that?” I mutter.
Lev’s expression hardens just enough. “Kirov. Former Spetsnaz. Dmitry’s enforcer until Konstantin took over his own operation. Now he floats between jobs—whatever blood needs spilling.”
“He looks like he enjoys it.”
“He does.”
We walk past, and I do everything I can not to shudder under the weight of Kirov’s stare.
But I fail—a shiver rips through me, cold and fast. I press my hands into my jacket pockets and focus on the end of the hall, heart pounding just a little too fast.
We round the final corner, and I see them before they see me.
The corridor opens into a private foyer near the main exit, quiet and gilded, with a tall mirror on one wall and polished brass fixtures that gleam under soft white light. A cluster of men stand near the doorway, their heads bent slightly as if caught mid-discussion.
My father is among them, of course.
He’s speaking in low, urgent tones to Konstantin, who listens with that same unreadable stillness I saw from the balcony—hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, face carved from stone. Konstantin doesn’t nod. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t give my father the dignity of a response.
A few others linger nearby—legal muscle in expensive suits, the kind of men who handle contracts and quiet bloodstains alike. One of them is holding a sleek leather folio, papers already laid out.
Lev slows beside me, his voice low. “This is the formal part. The binding.”
Konstantin lifts his head slightly when I enter. His eyes sweep over me. Not cruelly. Just thoroughly.
Pyotr turns, catching sight of me too, and there’s a flicker of something on his face—approval, maybe. Or relief. Like he’s already patting himself on the back for surviving this day.
I ignore him.
Lev guides me to the table, gestures to the document with a pen already waiting.
“You’ll need to sign,” he says gently. “Bottom right. Three pages in.”
I stare at the paper like it might explode.
This moment.
This signature.
This is where I give up my name.
My gut twists. I’m not afraid of men like Pyotr. Not even men like Kirov. But this?
Signing this makes it real. Binding. Irreversible. My fingers twitch at my sides.
Don’t show it. Don’t let them see.
I pick up the pen.
My name looks small when I write it.
Nadezhda Makarova.
I don’t look up when I finish. I don’t let myself meet anyone’s gaze. I simply set the pen down, step back, and clasp my hands behind me.
Konstantin reaches for the pen next. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t so much as glance at the lines before signing with steady, practiced precision.
And I watch him the entire time.
Something burns in my chest—not anger exactly, not grief either. Something caught between a bruise and a scar. I can’t tell if I’m relieved he doesn’t remember me or devastated that our night together meant so little to him.
That it was nothing more than a forgotten lay in some other city, some other life.
My stomach twists, but I keep my face still. Blank.
He hands the pen back to the suit, leans slightly against the table, and I brace for the awkward silence to stretch between us—
But then my father opens his mouth.
“So,” Pyotr says, suddenly full of greasy confidence, “I was thinking we should talk about the…extras.”
My eyes snap to him.
He smiles, that awful curling smirk I’ve hated since I was old enough to understand how manipulation worked.
“A girl like her—untouched, trained, Bratva lineage—you’re getting a hell of a deal. You’ve got to admit.”
Konstantin doesn’t react.
Pyotr pushes on. “You and I both know this isn’t about a contract. It’s about allegiance. About history. And for something this valuable…” He shrugs. “I think a little goodwill compensation is fair.”
I step forward, cold washing through me. “Are you serious?”
Pyotr ignores me.
I try again. “You’re trying to milk him now? After this?”
Still nothing.
“You’re unbelievable,” I whisper, voice tight. “You sell me and now you want to upcharge like I’m a fucking—”
“Don’t,” he snaps, finally turning to me. “This is between men. Stay out of it.”
My father’s greed is going to eat us both alive. What if Konstantin drops the deal? What if he’s decided I’m not worth it, after all? Worst of all, what if he decides to sell me…? No!
Before I can explode, Konstantin moves. “I’m going to stop you right there,” he says, voice like ice slicing through silk.
Pyotr falters.
Konstantin takes a step forward, not aggressive—just deliberate. “You came to me in desperation,” he says. “I made the offer, I won the bid. The terms are signed, and the transaction is complete.” He gestures toward me, subtle but unmistakable. “She belongs to me now. Not you.”
Pyotr opens his mouth.
“And if you ever speak about her like she’s a product again”—Konstantin’s voice lowers, almost intimate—“you’ll lose more than money.”
The silence crackles.
I blink, startled. For the first time all night, I don’t feel like property.
Pyotr grumbles something and slinks out, muttering under his breath.
Konstantin doesn’t speak. Neither does Lev.
They just start walking, and I fall into step beside them like it’s already been decided—because, in a way, it has.
The hallway is quiet, guarded at both ends by men with neutral faces and earpieces. The kind of quiet that costs money. The kind of security that doesn’t come cheap, even in Bratva circles.
Outside, the car waiting for us isn’t subtle.
It’s a jet-black Aston Martin Valkyrie, low to the ground and polished to a mirror shine, with a matte finish that probably costs more than the apartment I grew up in.
It’s sleek and aggressive, clearly custom, and doesn’t belong to someone who blends into the background.
Konstantin doesn’t strike me as flashy, but this car is a statement. A loud one.
I glance at Konstantin out of the corner of my eye, wondering again how a man like him—someone who grew up without his father’s name—clawed his way to a position powerful enough to sit beside the city’s most feared men. Dmitry Buryakov isn’t known for giving.
Lev opens the back door without a word. I get in, settling into the smooth black leather interior, which somehow manages to feel both expensive and sterile. It’s too clean, too silent, and clearly custom-built for privacy and intimidation.
The car pulls away smoothly, merging into the quiet late-night streets of Los Angeles. I’m acutely aware of the man sitting next to me, the leather seat only making the space feel smaller. Konstantin doesn’t speak, and neither do I.
I keep my gaze forward, telling myself I won’t be the first to break, yet every time the car changes lanes and his shoulder grazes mine I feel the punch of memory—a hotel room in Barcelona, salt air coming in through an open window, my back against cool sheets while he presses kisses down my ribs.
He took his time, pushed my blouse aside to cup my tits in his palms, thumbs sliding over nipples that went tight almost painfully fast, and I remember the weight of his body above me as clearly as I remember my own name.
My pulse starts to climb now, here in the back seat, because even if he doesn’t remember that night, my body does.
When he finally looks over, the blue of his eyes feels closer to heat than ice, and I know he feels this too, whether he admits it or not.
His gaze drops once—to the thin cotton blouse I changed into—and lingers on the outline of my breasts beneath the fabric, a slow assessment rather than a crude stare.
Without warning he reaches over and smooths a lock of hair behind my ear, fingertips dragging along the side of my neck.
It’s not rough, yet the possessiveness is obvious, and my skin prickles from shoulder to wrist. I should pull away; instead I stay still, too aware of how he could lean in and kiss me if he wanted.
The driver merges onto a quieter street, headlights washing across us in bands of white and shadow.
Konstantin’s knees turn toward me. I mirror the angle without thinking, and the small space suddenly feels smaller.
The memory unspools further—his hand sliding beneath my skirt that night, middle finger slipping through slick heat, my moan hushed by his mouth while his other hand squeezed my breast until I arched helplessly.
In the back of the car I press my thighs together because the memory alone makes me ache, and I hate that he might see that need in my expression.
When I open my eyes again, Konstantin is staring directly at me, a faint crease between his brows. For a terrible second, I think he can see right through me—that he knows exactly what I was just remembering.
“What?” I ask defensively, fighting the flush heating my cheeks.
He watches me a moment longer, then shrugs lightly. “Nothing. You just looked like you were miles away.”
I swallow, forcing myself to relax. “Just thinking about how I ended up here.”
He tilts his head, thoughtful. “You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, Nadya.”
He turns away again, facing forward, and I let out a slow breath, grateful that the darkness hides the way my hands tremble in my lap.