Page 57 of Stolen By The Bratva King

“Shit,” the anesthesiologist mutters. “Sorry. Give me a minute.”

“Can you hear me?” I ask, searching the patient’s face. Fabrizio panics in his semi-doped state, fright etched into his pale face.

“Leon,” he says.

I must have misheard. I’m tired and was thinking about my husband; it’s a weird trick of the ear.

“Vasiliev.” The heart rate monitor starts screaming, and people leap to action, but I’m too stunned to move, hanging on every word from the dying man’s lips.

No.What does this mean?

Fabrizio’s voice cracks, barely audible over the hum of the monitors.

“Leon… Vasiliev…”

Whatis going on?

“He’s—”

The blood pressure monitor screams as his numbers plummet. Chaos erupts around me, and a nurse grabs my shoulder, snapping me out of my frozen state.

“Emery! We’re losing him!”

Shame surges through me, but saving him now would take a miracle. He’s arresting, most likely due to hypovolemic shock caused by the suspected internal bleeding. It’s the cascade that all ER doctors fear because it’s too late by the time we work it out.

Fabrizio is beyond speech, his eyes rolling as he flatlines. We go through the motions, but nothing sticks, and after a couple of frenetic minutes, I call it.

The nurse pulls a sheet over the body as I fire my rubber gloves into the trash.

I don’t know what’s happening, but my amorous thoughts are long gone. I’ve spent too long hiding from my curiosity, not asking questions, and keeping up with the pretense that Leon is a good guy.

But the truth has a way of coming to light, and if there’s one thing I’m learning, it’s that passivity gets me nowhere.

Whatever the truth is, I must face it head-on, even if it breaks my heart. Because for all I know,Icould end up dying on a gurney, my husband’s name on my lips.

WhoisLeon Vasiliev?

It’s time to find out.

32

Leon

Ishould be concentrating on work.

Roman entrusted the leadership to me, and he would expect me to be hands-on, but the truth is, our operations practically run themselves.

I didn’t cultivate a reputation as a ruthless boss only to do all the running myself. Especially now that I have such a delicious distraction.

Emery.My wife.

Fucking her was a pleasure almost beyond imagination. I will never get enough of her tightness, her rolling curves, and that thick, grabbable ass.

Physically, she’s everything I’m not—soft, juicy, feminine. The only thing I’ll ever stop her doing is dieting; I wanna drool over every glorious inch of her body for the rest of my life.

But it’s not just her body—it’s her mind, heart, and how she looks at the world. Emery isn’t a distraction; she’s a revelation.

I check on the pork belly that’s under the broiler. Everything else for the ramen is ready, even the tea-stained eggs, which have been marinating all day.

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