Page 208 of The Lazarov Bratva

The darkness is warm and safe, and nothing can reach me here, but the sounds of birdsong are alluring. Despite my best efforts, the sound pulls me from my sleep, and I open my eyes. Above me, a white ceiling stares down at me.

I take a deep breath and hold it, then blink. The dark stone of my cell doesn’t melt back into focus. It’s still the white ceiling. Releasing the breath makes me aware of a light pressure across my chest. Glancing down, confusion swirls in my gut. I’m in a bed.

Not a bed I recognize, but one that’s clean and warm. Sunlight streams in the window, and the curtains waft softly in a light breeze that drifts in through the open window. From here I glimpse the deep blue sky and the tops of green trees. Swallowing, my throat complains, and the pain leads me to glance down at my left hand.

It’s still gone, but the stump is now wrapped tightly in crisp, white bandages and the pain is nothing more than a dull throb at the back of my mind like a distant thought.

Moving to sit on the edge of the bed reveals that I’m dressed in a soft cotton shirt and joggers, but it makes my head spin, and with it comes flashes of memories. August was over me, assuring me that things were going to be okay. A flash of daylight that burned my eyes after so long in the dark. A needle in my arm with a promise that I’d wake up safe.

Pulling myself from the bed, I hobble to the window. Large, beautiful gardens sprawl out from the building and stretch as far as the eye can see. In the distance, I glimpse sparkling water, though it’s unclear whether it’s the sea or a lake. The driveway below the window is stone-paved and filled with more cars and armed people than I’ve seen in a long time.

I have to find out where I am.

Luckily, my limbs listen to me easier than they did in the cell, so making it to the door only leaves me breathless. Opening the door, I’m greeted with deep oak walls and a couple of hundred cherubs painting the ceiling above. Wherever I am, it’s rich as all hell. Leaning on the wall for support, I make it a few steps down the hall until the fuzziness of the carpet makes my knees weak. Nausea washes over me, forcing me to lean heavily against the wall when suddenly, arms encircle me and help me up.

“Boss!”

My head throbs, but my heart lifts at that voice. “Andrev?”

“Yeah, I got you. Pretty sure you’re not supposed to be out of bed yet.”

“You’re alive?” Knowing Mara had Alena brought me to the conclusion that Andrev was surely dead. Now, he stands before me, supporting me with his shoulder, and weakness sweeps through my chest. “Holy shit, you’re alive.”

“And so are you.” Andrev smiles softly. “You gave us quite the scare, I won’t lie. I thought you were dead for so fucking long.”

“I need to see?—”

“August?” Andrev nods. “He’s downstairs. Come on.”

It takes longer than I care to admit to get down those stairs, but as soon as we reach the bottom, I only have one breathless question for Andrev.

“Where’s Alena?”

“August will explain,” Andrev assures me. Then he leads me through the house and out onto the patio. The sun-warmed stones are pleasant against my bare feet, and as we step out, several armed guards stand to attention.

August sits at a white table, a cane in one hand and a mug in the other, drinking deeply. As we approach, he notices me and his brows shoot up. When he lowers his cup, my heart clenches painfully as the plastic breathing aid embedded in August’s throat comes into view.

Is that why his voice was familiar but not the same?

“Kristof! You’re awake!”

“August.” I make it to the table and grip the back of a white metal chair.

“What happened? Where is Alena? Where am I?”

32

KRISTOF

“I nearly died. Came close, actually.”

August leans heavily on his cane, staring out across the vast gardens of his hideaway. The place is beautiful, but I care little for the gardens or the structure, the soup pressed into my hand by Katja, or the concerns for my health and my recovery. All I care about is Alena.

Andrev stands near me like a shadow, unwilling to put even a foot of distance between us. I don’t mind it. Despite the trauma I’m working to keep a handle on in the hour or so that I’ve been awake, being around the few people I trust is helping.

“The bullets that hit my chest luckily hit a few ribs.” August brushes a hand down his chest. “But the one that hit my neck?” He glances over his shoulder at me and indicates to the small circular device attached to his throat. “Do you know that certain injuries to your trachea can result in things worse than death? Eating through a tube for the rest of my life wasn’t on my cards until I was eighty.”

“It’s not worse,” Andrev remarks. “You’re alive. You’re just mad you can’t eat steak.”

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