Page 52 of 10 Days to Surrender

If not for me, then for my children.

He hadn’t said much when I texted him about the pregnancy. Just a classicI’ll be damned. More Sasha Ozerovs soon? The world shudders.Maybe he knew that I wasn’t ready to assess the meaning of it all yet, and so it was easy to hide behind the usual jokes and bullshitting.

I start to say, “I—” But then the doors swing open and a man emerges.

He’s a doctor, by the looks of him, if white coats mean anything out here. He scans the room and sees me and his eyes widen.

“I have to go. The doctors?—”

“Call me when you know more,” he cuts in. “And Sasha… I’m here for you, brother. Always.”

He hangs up before I can give him shit for being so in touch with his feelings.

The doctor shifts his weight back and forth as I charge up to him. He’s got shadows under his eyes that say he’s been here for a while. With a gulp, he launches into rapid Italian, medical terms flying past faster than I can track. I catch fragments: monitoring, scans,distacco della placenta—placental something. My jaw clenches as it all washes over me in an incomprehensible wave.

I can’t deal with this shit. I need simple, direct.

“English,” I growl.

He switches over, though his accent remains thick and halting. “Placenta.” He mimes tearing. “Distacco?Bleeding, maybe. We watch. One hour, no more.

My fists clench at my sides. “The babies?”

“Strong. Both, yes.”

“And she’s okay?”

If he’s intimidated, he hides it well. He nods. “She asks for you.” The doctor touches my arm—brave of him—and adds quietly, “Let us do our work. Soon. Soon, you see her.”

Then he turns and the doors swallow him whole. Behind me, the janitor mops my blood from the floor. Swirls of pink vanishing down the drain. Overhead, the fluorescents seem to increase in volume, like angry cicadas. I’m suddenly overwhelmed by a desire to be anywhere but here.

I see a sign over a nearby door:Obitorio.

I know that word.Morgue.That’ll work.

I push through and descend the stairs. The first thing that hits me is the smell: antiseptic masking decay, the same in everyhospital across the world. My boots echo against linoleum floors that have seen too much death.

It might’ve been optimistic to hope for escape. The morgue’s fluorescent buzz matches the one upstairs—different circle of hell, but the same devils in charge.

And those devils seem determined to make me remember things I’d much rather forget.

I’m twelve again, sitting on a metal bench while technicians wheel my mother past in a black bag. Father’s hand clamps down on my shoulder, fingers digging into muscle and bone.

“Stop crying,” he hisses. “Ozerov men don’t cry.”

I’d bitten his wrist. A feral thing. As was he—he’d slammed my face against the corpse fridge. I swore into the metal, through bloodied lips:Never again. I’ll burn the world before I let someone I love die scared and cold and far from home.

Now, the morgue hums its old hymn.

Never again, you said.

Ariel’s blood streaks my palm.

Never again, you vowed.

So much for keeping my promises.

The morgue door creaks open. I don’t look up—don’t care if it’s the security guard, a meddling nurse, or even an animated corpse coming down here to awaken its brethren. But then a voice slices through the rot.

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