“That was your mother?” I finally blurt out. My voice sounds strange, like it’s coming from somewhere else. “Why does she want to kill you?”
Aleksander huffs out a laugh that’s more pain than humor. “It’s complicated.”
I look down then, really look, and my stomach drops.
His shoulder is soaked. Blood darkens his shirt, slick and shiny, spreading every time the car hits a bump.
“Oh my god,” I gasp. “You’re hurt. You’re bleeding.”
He opens his eyes. “I’ve had worse.”
“You’ve been shot,” I say, my voice climbing. “That’s not a paper cut.”
I twist toward the front. “Nikolai, you need to take him to a hospital. Right now.”
The car stays on course.
Nikolai glances at Aleksander in the mirror. The two of them share a look, the kind men share when they’ve already agreed on something I’ll never understand. Aleksander just shakes his head slightly, eyes still burning.
I sit back, clutching Lily, feeling ridiculous and furious and terrified all at once. “Of course. Why would you go to a hospital?” I mutter. “You’re a mob boss. You probably have a…a bullet-removal guy on speed dial or something.”
Aleksander lets out a ragged laugh, and even Nikolai cracks the tiniest grin as he careens through a red light.
It’s almost funny, except it isn’t. I look down at Lily—safe, alive, finally breathing quietly—and I hold her tighter, not sure if I want to cry, laugh, or scream.
Only in Aleksander’s world, I think, does surviving your own mother count as a normal night out.
We speed through the city, night flashing past the windows. I’m clutching Lily so hard my arms ache, my mind still stuck back in that garden—Irina’s gun, Aleksander’s blood, the chaosand shouting. Every so often, I glance at Aleksander in the seat beside me, just to be sure he’s still breathing. He leans against the window, his shirt soaked through, eyes half-lidded but stubbornly alert.
“Where are we going?” I ask, my voice barely more than a whisper.
He meets my gaze for a split second, pain flickering behind his eyes, then shrugs. “Home.”
Somehow, that makes my shoulders loosen. Whatever else has happened, I know the city out this window better than anything on that estate. We’re not safe, but at least we’re somewhere familiar.
Nikolai pulls into an underground garage and the car rolls to a stop. I help Lily out, then turn to Aleksander, who’s already trying to push himself upright, ignoring how badly his arm is trembling.
“Stop,” I say. “You’re not bulletproof.”
He smirks, but it’s thin and tired. I throw his good arm over my shoulders and help him up, staggering under his weight but refusing to let go.
We get him into the elevator and up to his apartment—dark glass, slick floors, a view that would impress me if I weren’t so exhausted. There’s already a man waiting inside: the doctor, all business, his bag open on the table.
Aleksander sits without protest. The doctor works quickly, snipping away his jacket and shirt, cleaning the wound, muttering things I don’t want to understand. Blood pools, whitebandages soak red. Aleksander just stares at the skyline, jaw clenched.
I hover, Lily pressed to my hip, heart thundering for reasons I can’t name. I should be angry—furious, actually. This man almost got us killed, twice, in less than twenty-four hours. He dragged me into a world I don’t understand, a war that isn’t mine.
But I can’t look away. I can’t stop the surge of anxiety tightening my chest every time Aleksander winces, every time the doctor shakes his head or presses another bandage into place.
I set Lily down on the couch, her eyes already closing, thumb back in her mouth. She’s too tired to protest. I envy her for that.
I don’t know what I want to say. I don’t even know why I’m still here. All I know is that my heart hasn’t slowed down since the moment Irina pulled that trigger—and I’m not sure if it’s fear, relief, or something far more dangerous.
I stand a few feet away, arms crossed tight over my chest as the doctor works on Aleksander. He doesn’t make small talk. He moves quickly and efficiently, cleaning the bullet wound, checking for an exit, injecting something that makes Aleksander wince. The blood on Aleksander’s skin is startling against the white bandages, and the metallic smell seems to fill the whole apartment.
“How bad is it?” I finally ask, my voice small. “Is he…is he going to be okay?”
The doctor glances at me, expression unreadable. “He’s lost blood, but the bullet went clean through. He’ll heal, if he doesn’t do anything reckless.”
