Page 13 of Sins He Taught Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 3)

Victoria

Holzman Hospital smells like bleach and death.

I’ve always hated the place. Growing up, Dad was the kind of parent that rarely took me to the doctor. He figured most things could be solved with a couple ibuprofen and some ginger ale. Things had to be bad to come to the hospital.

Things are really bad right now.

I bounce my knees and look up at every nurse that passes, hoping that one of them will come up and tell me that everything is going to be okay. My mind races with all kinds of possibilities.

On the ambulance ride to the hospital, Dad was unresponsive. When I squeezed his hand, hoping to feel him squeeze back, I found nothing but a limp, cold chill.

They wouldn’t let me any further than the hallway, and seeing him wheeled away for what could be the last time was the worst feeling in the world. Even now, thinking about it makes me want to cry.

This can’t be happening. Dad may have his problems, but he doesn’t deserve this.

Thoughts race through my head. What happened to him? Who would do something like this to my dad? He doesn’t bother anybody. He causes himself some issues every now and then when he’s been drinking, but he was on his way to meet me at the bar after work. He hadn’t even had time to get messed up yet.

The hours tick by, my head droops forward, and I feel my eyes start to grow heavy—until finally, someone steps outside, walking towards me.

I look up to see that it’s an older doctor with kind blue eyes and shoulder-length gray hair. She smiles softly when I practically jump up from my seat.

“Is he okay?” I ask, not bothering to let her introduce herself.

“Right now, your father is stable, yes,” she says.

Hearing that he’s alive almost brings tears again. He’s the only family I have left. I can’t lose him.

“Thank God,” I whisper, wringing my hands together. “Can I go see him?”

“You can see him in a minute, but I wanted to talk to you before then.” She sighs and looks at me meaningfully. “He’s been pretty badly beaten. He says that he doesn’t know by whom, but I’m not sure I believe that entirely. Either way, he’s going to live. He’ll just need a few weeks to recover. He has a broken wrist and some pretty badly bruised ribs, but he’ll be okay.”

“Thank you so much,” I say.

“But…”

I freeze. “What is it?”

“With an assessment of assault like this, I was obligated to report it to the police. So, two officers are here, and they want to ask you a couple questions.”

Shit.

The doctor reaches for my hand and gives it a soft squeeze before she heads back into the room to talk with him. I think it was meant to be a reassuring gesture, but all I feel is dread.

I’ve been down this road before. It never ends well.

As the doctor vanishes through the swinging double doors, two police officers step out. Before I can take a seat, they’re in front of me.

“Hello,” I say warily, looking between them. One has a thick mustache and beady eyes, and the other looks like he’s probably a rookie, with a clean-shaven jaw set at a hard angle. He looks about my age, maybe a year or two older.

“Good evening, Ms. Elwood,” the older man says. “I’m Detective Mendoza. This is Detective Sharpe. Our condolences for the unfortunate circumstances.”

“Yeah, thanks.” I look down at my feet and then back up at them. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Mendoza, the older one, has a kind twinkle to his eye. Almost sympathetic, or at least, as sympathetic as a police detective can be. He clears his throat. “Well, I was hoping you’d have more information about your father’s attack. You were the one that was with him when it happened, yes?”

“No,” I correct, “I was in the bar waiting for him. He came stumbling in, really badly beaten up. I don’t know who would’ve done something like this.”

“Really?” the young officer blurts. He looks at me skeptically. He doesn’t seem nearly as nice as his partner. Downright aggressive, actually, as if I’m the suspect here. “He seemed to have some kind of idea. Seemed nervous when we started asking some questions, mentioning some names. Matvei Morozov, in particular, seemed to strike a chord. Does that sound familiar?”

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