Page 45 of The Bratva's Sextuplets
“The local anesthetic will help with the pain,” Dr. Kozlova says as she prepares her sutures, “But you’ll need to limit movement for at least a week to allow proper healing.”
“That’s not going to happen,” I say flatly. “We’re at war now. Limited movement isn’t an option.”
“Then you risk permanent damage to the muscle group and potentially permanent loss of range of motion in that arm.”
I weigh the medical warning against the realities we’re facing. With Avgar escalating to direct attacks in public spaces, with traitors still unidentified within our organization, I can’t afford to appear weak or compromised.
“Do what you can,” I tell Dr. Kozlova. “I’ll accept the risks.”
She begins suturing with efficient movements, her needle pulling flesh back together. The pain is manageable since I’ve endured much worse, but I watch Zita’s reflection in the polished steel of the medical cabinet to distract myself.
“You can leave if this bothers you,” I offer, noting the way she’s gone pale during the procedure.
“It doesn’t bother me.” She moves closer to the table, gaze fixed on the careful work Dr. Kozlova is performing. “I want to understand.”
“Understand what?”
“What you’re willing to endure to protect me.” Her voice is quiet but thoughtful. “What it costs you to keep me safe.”
Her words are unexpected and unsettling. I’m accustomed to people fearing my capacity for violence, respecting the power it represents, or trying to use it for their own purposes. I’m not accustomed to someone trying to understand the personal price of that violence.
“It costs nothing that matters,” I say, though we both know that’s not entirely true.
Dr. Kozlova finishes the sutures and applies a sterile dressing to the wound. “Twenty-four hours of rest would be ideal,” she says, packing her instruments. “But I know better than to expect compliance from Belsky men.”
After she leaves, silence settles over the medical room. Zita approaches the table where I sit shirtless, my shoulder bound in white bandages that are already showing traces of seepage.
“May I?” she asks, gesturing toward the dressing.
I nod, curious about what she intends. Her touch is gentle as she checks the edges of the bandage, ensuring that Dr. Kozlova’s work is secure. Her fingers are warm against my skin, careful to avoid the injured area while still providing the human contact I didn’t realize I needed.
“You killed three men tonight,” she says without looking up from her examination of the bandage.
“Yes.”
“To protect me.”
“Yes.”
“You took a bullet meant for me.”
“Yes.” I study her face, trying to read the emotions flickering across her features. “Does that disturb you?”
She finally meets my eyes, and what I see there isn’t disturbance or fear, but something that looks suspiciously like wonder. “It should. A month ago, it would’ve. But tonight…”
“Tonight, what?”
“Tonight I watched my husband risk his life to keep me safe. I watched him move like a warrior and fight like someone who’d rather die than let harm come to me.” Her hands still rest against my uninjured shoulder, anchoring me to this moment. “I realized that everything I thought I knew about what our marriage means is probably wrong.”
“What do you think it means now?”
“I think it means you care about me more than you’ve admitted, and I care about you more than I want to admit.” She traces the edge of the bandage with one finger, her touch feather-light but electric. “I think it means we’re both in much more danger than we were willing to acknowledge.”
“Danger from the Federoffs?”
“Danger from each other.” She steps back, creating distance that feels like loss. “Danger from caring about someone in a world where caring makes you vulnerable.”
The truth of her words settles between us like an accusation. In my father’s world, attachment was weakness. Emotional investment was a liability that enemies could exploit. Love was the fastest way to get yourself and everyone you cared about killed.
