Silence settles, thick and suffocating. Kamiyah stares at the nothingness between us, her voice barely audible. “I don’t want her near Anna.”
Neither do I. Anna’s only purpose to Priscilla is to use her to keep Kamiyah under her thumb. And she’d use Anna’s vulnerability—her coma, her dependency on the facility—to force compliance.
Not if I can help it.
Not while I still have resources.
And allies.
But calling in another favor… Damn.
I hesitate for a full minute before pulling out my phone—taking a deep breath, I dial the number for the second time since Kamiyah walked into my apartment. A number I hadn’t used since the night my mother died, when the world fractured and I made alliances I thought I’d never need again.
Kamiyah’s gaze snaps to me. “Who are you calling?”
“A friend,” I said, dialing. “Someone who can help us.”
Her eyes soften with trust. A trust I’m not sure I’ll deserve after what I’m about to do, but I will repay with everything I have.
The line clicks and a familiar, amused voice answers. “This better be good. I’m in the middle of dinner.”
“Zykin,” I greet tightly. “I need another favor.” Zykin Yaroslav is the Don of the Russian Bratva in Little Odessa—aka—East Village in New York City.
There is a beat of silence, followed by a low, incredulous laugh. “Another favor? Caden, it must be your birthday.”
I snort despite the tension coiling through my spine. “You know I wouldn’t call unless it’s serious.”
“Everything with you is serious,” he says dryly. “Speak.”
I turn slightly so Kamiyah won’t see the strain in my eyes. “It’s my wife. Her sister is in a coma. And the woman who legally oversees her medical decisions is…dangerous. She’s using Anna as leverage.” I relay all pertinent information because I know he has the means to find out anyway.
There’s a heavy pause. Zykin is the type of man that doesn’t play when it comes to his wife, Katya, and I pray that knowing Kamiyah’s position makes his decision to help me easier. “You need protection,” he says, voice dropping. “Or removal?”
“Not hers,” I grit out. “Anna’s.”
Another silence—sharper this time. “Explain.”
“I want her moved,” I say. “Quietly. Discreetly. To the secure medical facility your network uses. The one outside state jurisdiction.”
Zykin’s exhale is a low whistle. “You don’t ask for small things, do you?”
“No,” I say. “I don’t.”
“And Haven Crest? The doctors? The paperwork?”
“I’ll handle the legal fallout.” I swallow hard. “You handle the rest.”
I could almost hear him weighing loyalty against practicality. “And why,” he says slowly, “should I risk repositioning resources for you?”
“Because it’s worth it.”
“Worth what, Caden?” His tone sharpens. “You owe me one favor already. Moving a patient across borders—quietly, invisibly—will cost you another.”
I don’t flinch. “Then I’ll owe you.”
“Are you sure?” he asks. “Debts become chains. You know this.”
I look at Kamiyah curled on the couch. Eyes full of worry. “Yes,” I say quietly but with conviction. “The cost is worth it.”
