Chapter 22 - Gela
“Jesus Christ, Valentin! What the hell happened?” I freeze midway down the stairs, on my way to get water, when I see Valentin stumbling through the front door with Leonid draped over his shoulder.
Blood stains Leonid's sleeve, dripping onto the floor, and the sight makes me sick to my stomach.
“Get some towels, Gela, please!” Valentin speaks in panic, not even looking at me as he helps Leonid to the living room couch. “And tell the housekeeper to call Dr. Petrov. Tell him it's an emergency.”
I run down the rest of the stairs, nearly tripping over my own feet. My vision goes dizzy as I rush to the kitchen and tell Maria to call the doctor, while I frantically search for clean towels.
When I get back to the living room, Leonid's lying on the couch, and his face looks pale and clammy. His sleeve is soaked with blood, and Valentin's sitting on the floor in front of the couch, pressing his hand against Leonid’s wound.
“It's just a graze,” Leonid groans, but he sounds like he’s hurting badly.
I kneel beside Valentin and hand over the towels. “The doctor's on his way. Maria called him.”
“Thank you,” Valentin says, looking exhausted and broken as he takes the towel, and something in my heart gives. I hate seeing him this worried, this stressed out.
“What happened?” I ask softly.
“We got shot at,” he mutters, closing his eyes with a sigh. That’s not really an answer enough, but looking at how frazzledhe is, I let it slide for now. We’ve got bigger problems on our hands.
I swallow back any more questions and head to the kitchen again, needing to be helpful, and grab bottles of water and electrolyte drinks from the fridge.
When I return, I put in a straw and hand a tetra pack to Leonid. “It’ll help with the blood loss. Just take a few sips, please.”
“Thanks,” he murmurs, taking it with his good hand. His eyes flick to Valentin, then back to me. “He's being dramatic. It's barely a scratch.”
“Uh-huh.” I look at Valentin, and he shakes his head like he doesn’t know what to do with his brother either.
The bell rings, and I rush to answer it. Dr. Petrov, a gray-haired man in his sixties, stands there with his medical bag in hand.
“This way, please.” I lead him straight to the living room.
He barely acknowledges Valentin or me and gets straight to work on Leonid. I hover nearby, unsure what to do with myself as he cuts away the bloody sleeve and examines the wound.
“You were lucky,” he tells Leonid. “The bullet just grazed you, and it’s a clean entry and exit. You'll need some stitches, I’m afraid, but there’s no serious damage.”
The living room door slams open, and I turn to see Trifon storming in with Iosif and Miron. Valentin must have told his brothers to come here the minute shit went down.
“What the fuck happened?” Trifon asks Valentin.
I take a step back, instinctively making space for the family drama that's about to unfold.
As Trifon begins to tell us all about his plans, how he went to get the Zakharovs with his explosives, I feel the ground shake beneath him. He put himself in so much danger. He could have lost his life.
And for what?
“You went to the warehouse alone?” Trifon hisses at Valentin when he’s finished. “What were you thinking?”
“I want to end this,” Valentin shoots back. “They came after Gela today by using a fake client to spy on her. I'm not waiting around for them to try again.”
“So you thought you'd blow up their warehouse?” Iosif's voice rises in disbelief. “Without backup and a plan?”
“If I hadn't shown up,” Leonid calls from the couch, “this idiot would be dead instead of me sitting here with a scratch.”
“I had it under control,” Valentin insists.
“Like hell you did,” Trifon spits. “You never think, Val, that’s your problem. You just react. And now Leonid's shot, and you didn't even accomplish anything except alert the Zakharovs that we're coming for them.”
