Page 56 of Ruthless Bratva King

The credits roll, leaving me with nothing but the echoes of my thoughts. Would I end up like Del? My married life torn apart by Dmitri’s inevitable death in some shootout somewhere? Alone and forever missing him? No home worth going back to.

I go back to The Sims, trying to forget my troubles.

I’m a half hour in when my phone rings. The shrill sound cuts through the silence, making me jump. My heart lurches, and I rush to answer.

His name lights up the screen.

I answer breathlessly. “Dmitri?”

“I need you to listen carefully.” The intensity in his tone instantly puts me on edge. “There’s a black car parked out front. The key is in the drawer by the fireplace. I’m going to send you an address. You need to bring a sewing kit and a bottle of vodka.”

A sewing kit? Vodka? The bizarre request makes my thoughts stumble. “What? Why? Dmitri, what’s going on?”

“I don’t have time to explain,” he says, his voice low but firm.

I hesitate, gripping the edge of the counter. My heart pounds as a dozen questions race through my mind. Where am I going? Why does he need a sewing kit?

“Elena,” Dmitri snaps, dragging my attention back to him. “I need you to do this for me? Can you do this?”

“Yes,” I say.

“That’s my good girl. Check your phone for the address. And Elena—” His voice softens slightly, just enough to send a shiver down my spine. “Get here as fast as you can.”

40

ELENA

The car headlights sweep over the abandoned warehouse, graffiti-covered walls glaring back at me.

My stomach churns as I spot Dmitri leaning against the grimy exterior, his figure barely illuminated by a flickering streetlamp as he waves weakly at me.

"Dmitri!" I call out, rushing toward him.

His face is pale and lined with exhaustion. His suit is in tatters, the left sleeve shredded. His usual aura of command is replaced by something vulnerable yet still somehow composed.

"You bring the sewing kit?" he asks gruffly as I reach him.

"What happened?" My voice trembles with panic as I reach for his arm, but he gently brushes me off.

"Later," he says, his tone final. “Get itnow, Elena."

Reluctantly, I run back to the car and retrieve the small sewing kit. When I return, he’s already unbuttoning his jacket with a grimace. His movements are slow, his strength clearly waning.

"Help me with this," he mutters, and I step forward, sliding the jacket off his broad shoulders.

As I peel the fabric away, my stomach turns at the sight of the deep gash stretching diagonally across his back. The wound is jagged, angry, and still oozing blood.

"This is insane, Dmitri. You need a doctor!" I plead.

He looks at me, his steel-gray eyes softening just a fraction. "Elena, you’re tough enough for this. Open the vodka."

My hands shake as I unscrew the cap, the sharp scent of alcohol biting at my nose. He takes the bottle, pouring a generous amount over the wound. He doesn’t even flinch, though his jaw tightens.

"Sterilize the needle," he says, handing the bottle back to me.

I fumble with the kit, pulling out the needle and thread. My vision blurs slightly as I soak the needle in vodka, my mind screaming at the absurdity of the situation.

"I can’t do this," I say in a small voice.

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