Page 68 of Stolen By The Bratva King

I head for the drink trolley for another shot, but Viktor stops me with a palm on my chest.

“Steady, Leon. She’s okay, and her father will be fine. We’ll make sure he’s under guard while he convalesces. Now, what shall we do with Dante’s little soldier?”

This whole evening has been a debacle. I’m in the mood for apportioning blame, and the more I can make it someone else’s problem, the less I have to think about the fact that it was all my fault.

I failed to protect.Again.

“If you can spare five minutes,tovarishch,” I say, flexing my fingers, “you’re welcome to pull up a pew and have a word with him. Take him away from here, and I’ll catch up with you later.”

“You don’t want to do it yourself?”

“I do,” I reply. “But nothing is more important than my wife; she needs me right now.”

37

Emery

Demyan and I removed the bullet from my father’s leg without much difficulty. Dad is asleep now; blood loss, anesthetic, and painkillers have knocked him down hard, and he needs the rest.

A slow transfusion is hooked to his arm, along with IV fluids and antibiotics.

“You should get some rest, Emery.” Demyan pulls a Diet Coke from the mini fridge, deftly popping the cap with the edge of his stethoscope. “I’ll kick back here and take a light nap. If your father needs anything, I’ll tend to him.”

I release Dad’s hand and stand, stretching. “Thanks.”

He adjusts his glasses, giving me a dazzling smile, and I can’t help but smile back.

God, these bratva men are devastating. If Leon catches me smiling at Demyan, he might go full caveman and rearrange the good doctor’s face.

“You sure you’ll be okay in that chair?” I nod at the battered Chesterfield. “It doesn’t exactly scream comfort.”

He snorts. “Come on, you’re a doctor. You don’t think I’ve mastered the fine art of sleeping in crappy chairs? It’s practically med school 101.”

He arranges himself on the seat and closes his eyes. I take my cue and leave to find Leon.

My family home is luxurious but not especially large, yet my husband is nowhere to be found. He was in the second lounge—he and Viktor helped themselves to Dad’s liquor—but I don’t know where he is now.

The guy who Leon kneecapped is gone, too; the only evidence of his existence is a patch of sticky blood on the kitchen floor.

Did Leon save me and my father, only to leave?

Knowing he’s the boss of the bratva has done nothing to calm my raging heart.

Leon stalked me, his obsession unchecked, and stole me from the life I knew. Yet when I was in danger, he stepped in front of me without a moment’s pause, gun raised, ready to die for me.

Was he afraid? Desperately so—but not for himself. I saw it in his eyes.

He was that little boy again, wracked with guilt, terrified to act but even more frightened to lose someone else.

Afraid, but not a coward.

My old bedroom is exactly as I left it when I moved out, and it was childish even then. It has the feel of a different me, a kid who was about to strike out alone but didn’t know how sheltered she truly was.

I envy her—the girl who still thought she could save the world, blissfully ignorant of her own blind spots and weaknesses.

What I wouldn’t give to feel that way again.

Although it’s the only room left to check, opening the door and seeing Leon standing there is still a surprise.

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