Page 26 of Hostage of the Russian
She stirred slightly, her gray eyes fluttering open to meet his. “Kostya?”
“I’m here. We’re almost there.”
The Nikolai family clinic looked unremarkable from the outside, a modest brick building wedged between a laundromat and a corner store. But Kostya knew better. His grandfather had established it decades ago as a front for treating injuries that couldn’t be explained to regular hospitals. The interior was better equipped than most private hospitals, with suites that resembled luxury hotel rooms more than medical facilities.
Dr. Petrov, a silver-haired man in his sixties, was waiting in the underground garage as Kostya pulled into bay three. Two nurses flanked him, a gurney at the ready.
“What happened?” Petrov asked as they carefully transferred Azriel from the car.
“Campus shooting. She got caught in the crossfire.” The lie came easily. Kostya jogged alongside the gurney as they rushed toward the elevator. “She was conscious until a few minutes ago.”
“Pulse is weak but steady,” one of the nurses reported. “Blood pressure’s dropping.”
The elevator ride to the third floor felt like an eternity. Kostya watched the numbers climb, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. When the doors finally opened, they rushed down a hallway lined with paintings that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a museum.
“You’ll need to wait outside,” Dr. Petrov said as they approached the operating suite.
“No.” The word came out harsher than Kostya intended. “I stay with her.”
“Kostya.“
“I fucking stay with her.” His voice carried the kind of authority that had made grown men piss themselves. “Find a way to make it work.”
Dr. Petrov studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Scrub in. Don’t touch anything, don’t speak unless I ask you a direct question.”
The next three hours were the longest of Kostya’s life. He stood in the corner of the operating room, watching as Dr. Petrov and his team worked to repair the damage the bullet had caused. It had missed vital organs, barely, but there had been significant bleeding and tissue damage.
When they finally moved Azriel to a recovery room, Kostya felt like he could breathe again. The room was spacious and elegantly appointed, with cream-colored walls and a window that overlooked a small garden. A comfortable armchair had been placed beside the bed, as if the staff had anticipated he wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon.
“The surgery went well,” Dr. Petrov said, removing his surgical cap. “The bullet missed her major organs, but she lost a significant amount of blood. She’ll need to stay here for at least a week, possibly longer.”
“But she’ll be okay?”
“She’ll recover fully. The wound will be tender for several weeks, and she’ll need to take it easy, but there shouldn’t be any lasting damage.”
Relief flooded through Kostya’s chest, so intense it left him dizzy. “Thank you.”
“I’ll check on her every few hours. Call if you need anything.” Dr. Petrov paused at the door. “She’s lucky, youknow. A few inches to the right, and we’d be having a very different conversation.”
After the doctor left, Kostya sank into the armchair and stared at Azriel’s sleeping form. She looked so small in the hospital bed, fragile in a way that made his chest tight with an emotion he didn’t want to name. Her dark hair was spread across the pillow, and an IV line snaked from her arm to a bag of fluids hanging beside the bed.
He should call Viktor, let the family know what had happened. He should be coordinating a response to whoever had dared to target him through her. Instead, he found himself studying the steady rise and fall of her chest, counting each breath like a prayer.
Hours passed in a blur. Azriel drifted in and out of consciousness, sometimes mumbling incoherent words, other times simply staring at him with unfocused eyes before sleep claimed her again. Kostya left her side only once, to call his men and have them investigate the shooting. The information they brought back made his blood run cold.
It wasn’t random. The Kozlov Bratva, their oldest rivals, had gotten wind of his visit to the campus. They’d been watching, waiting for an opportunity to strike at him through someone he cared about.
The realization hit him like a physical blow.Through someone he cared about.When had that happened? When had this woman, who’d been nothing more than payment for her father’s debts, become someone worth targeting to hurt him?
“You look like shit.”
Kostya’s head snapped up. Azriel was awake, her gray eyes clearer than they’d been since the surgery. A small smileplayed at the corners of her mouth despite the pain medication that should have kept her unconscious.
“You’re one to talk,” he said, but his voice was gentle. “How do you feel?”
“Like I got shot.” She tried to shift in the bed, wincing. “Where are we?”
“Private clinic. You’ve been out for about eighteen hours.”
