Page 165 of Emerald Malice

The voice on the other end of the line is silky smooth and deeply masculine. And he knows my name.

“Who is this? Where is my aunt?”

Mila stands up, mouthing questions at me I can’t answer. My heart is thrumming erratically again. The relief I felt a moment ago has all but disappeared.

“She’s at St. Vincent's Hospital. You might want to rush over.” The words are tinged with sick amusement. “She’s not doing so well.”

“Who are you?!” I scream, sending Mila running into the house for help before she even knows what’s happening.

“My name is Slavik,” he says with a little chuckle. “Say hello to my son for me, will you?”

Then the line goes dead.

59

NATALIA

Anatoly and Olaf are in the front, careening through traffic towards the hospital. Mila is next to me, talking to Misha.

He shouldn’t even be here. I should’ve made him stay home. But would he even be safe at home? Would any of us?

“Natalia?”

The second I hear Andrey’s voice, tears fill my eyes. The loose grip I’ve had on my emotions gives way, and tears pour down my face.

“They got her. They hurt Aunt Annie.”

I have no idea how he manages to understand me, but his voice is deadly calm when he asks me a single question. “Who got to her, lastochka?”

“Your father,” I whisper. “Slavik.”

There’s a beat of silence. I’m bracing myself for the disbelief, the incredulity. I’m resigned to the precious minutes I’ll waste trying to convince him that I can still go to the hospital and that he doesn’t need to bury me in some underground bunker in Siberia.

But as it turns out, Andrey doesn’t need convincing.

“Stay safe,” he growls. “I’ll handle the rest.”

When we arrive at the hospital, Anatoly accompanies all of us into the emergency room. People aim annoyed looks at Remi, but I’m prepared to sic him on anyone who gets in my way.

Once I give them Aunt Annie’s name, we’re led to a room on the fourth floor.

I don’t remember getting into the elevator or walking down the hallway. Just that, the next thing I know, I’m standing in front of this woman who has always been a strong, dependable force of nature, who is now lying in a narrow bed with tubes sticking out of her arms…

And a blazing red rope burn seared into her neck.

“Oh, God. Aunt Annie,” I croak.

She stirs, blinking up at me. Her voice—what’s left of it—is a nasty rattle in her throat. “My Nic-Nat…”

I grab her hand as tears gush down my cheeks. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispers with difficulty. “I was so scared…”

“Of course you were.”

She shakes her head, her eyes bulging out of their sockets, making her thin face look even more gaunt. “Not for me, child. For you.”

“Me?”

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