Page 18 of Wrong Number. Right Don.
7
SERGEI
I’ve never felt more afraid or helpless than I did when I found my mother on the floor. For one soul-crushing second, I thought she was gone. I panicked in a way I never have before. Not even when Papa died. For a moment, I felt like a child with no idea what to do next.
I’m not a man who panics or freezes. When things need to be taken care of, I don’t hesitate. But seeing my mother like that—pale and unmoving, her face slack in an unnatural droop—I didn’t know what to do. Thankfully, my fingers moved faster than my brain; somehow, I dialed 9-1-1 before I even registered what I was doing.
The minutes before the ambulance arrived felt like hours.
Even though I know she’s stable now, that the doctors are confident she’ll recover, my hands still won’t stop shaking. I lean forward in the waiting room, elbows braced on my knees, dragging my hands down my face.
I exhale, trying to ground myself, but my mind won’t shut the fuck up. I keep replaying the horrible scenes over and over again.Mom crumpled on the floor, the ambulance’s blinding lights, the antiseptic sting that hit me the moment I stepped into the ER.
Then came the biggest shock to my system. The nurse working on my mother the moment she came in was Nicole. Mind-fucking good in bed Nicole.
She probably told me she was a nurse, but I barely remember anything we discussed at that dinner. If I’d ever imagined running into her again, this scenario would be dead last on the list. Ideally, if I saw her again she’d be wearing some sexy piece of lingerie.
No.I shake my head. Now isn’t the time to be thinking about that. It doesn’t matter how incredible our night together was. There’s only one thing I should be focusing on right now, and it’s finding out what’s going to happen with my mother.
A nurse runs by and I can’t help but check to see if it’s Nicole. I wonder if she’s still with Mom or if she’s moved on to another patient. I shouldn’t expect any special treatment, of course. Still, part of me wishes that she would stay with Mom until I’m sure she’s fine. They won’t let me back there until they finish running tests, and it would be nice to know someone is standing by her.
I clench my jaw and run a hand through my hair, exhaling sharply. My feet tap against the linoleum floor and I can’t keep my knees from bouncing. I haven’t felt this anxious and rattled in years, and I don’t know what to do with myself. My body feels foreign to me. I don’t know what to do with my hands, or where to look. I am utterly useless.
My gaze drifts to the nurses’ station, where a woman with a clipboard speaks to a colleague. Her back is to me, but a jolt of electricity runs through me and I know it’s Nicole.
From this vantage point, she seems calm and collected. She’s used to this, I imagine. She jumps into action when there’s a crisis; that’s her job. My world is falling apart, but this is just another night for her. For some reason, that gets under my skin more than it should.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, yanking me out of the tailspin. I glance at the screen, where Sasha’s name fills it.
“Yeah, Sasha,” I say.
“How is she?” he asks, his voice low and steady.
“She’s stable,” I say, my voice still rough. “The doctors said it was a minor stroke. She’s got some recovery ahead of her, but she’ll be okay with the right care.”
“Good.” He exhales, relief bleeding through the line.
There’s a long pause. Neither of us quite knows what to say in a situation like this. When Papa died, we just downed a bottle of vodka and said hardly anything. We Volkov men aren’t really emotional creatures. Even so, emotion threads through his tone.
“You staying with her?” He clears his throat.
“Until we know more, yes,” I confirm.
Another beat of silence. Then Sasha shifts to safer territory: business.
“I’m handling the debt situation,” he says, unprompted. “The guy swore he’d have the money, but?—”
“But he hasn’t delivered,” I cut him off. It’s a tale as old as time.
“Not yet. But he will. I’m working on it.” Sasha chuckles, low and dark.
I don’t doubt that. Sasha is the best person to handle people who don’t pay their dues. He doesn’t waste time on excuses or pleasantries, and he has zero patience for men who lie.
And right now, I have no doubt he’s making sure the debt is paid one way or another.
I drag a hand through my hair. “Don’t make a mess.”
“No promises.” He laughs.
