I jumped when someone answered. It wasn’t him. I wasn’t treated to the deep, rich timbre of Mikhail’s voice, but that of a butler. He took my details promptly, and without waiting to check with any schedule, he suggested that I come and perform a follow-up with his boss in a few hours.
“Very well,” I replied after thanking the man for his efficient scheduling.
Martin, the butler, gave me instructions for where to go, and we disconnected shortly after that.
I sat on my couch for an undeterminable length of time, though, hating that I was really doing this.
I’d be going to this mobster’s house to treat him. Off the record. On the down low. A secret plan.
It was surreal for someone as law-abiding as myself to even consider this, but I couldn’t dispel this nagging need to see him. To know he was all right. To hopefully sate this stupid draw and curiosity about him.
A couple of hours later, I grabbed my stethoscope and a couple of other items I could expect to use to measure vitals on a patient. They were shoved into my tote bag, and I left the apartment to begin the way toward the Orlov residence.
Nerves waged war in my stomach. Between a giddy excitement I loathed and a natural dread that I was doing something wrong, I was a tense bundle of too many emotions on the ride toward the financial district. So much of this city was still foreign to me, but I recognized that I was riding in the direction of a very expensive and wealthy part of the city.
Where the powerful lived.
The dangerous.
The elite.
When the car pulled up to the curb on a block of tall buildings with state-of-the-art décor on the exterior walls, I did my best not to gape and stare, to walk with my head up as I peered at the magnificent and massive buildings.
Stepping onto the sidewalk, I felt like I was leaving one universe and entering another. From “normal” life to something more cinematic and out-of-touch.
“Let’s go, Claire,” I whispered to myself.
I’d gotten this far.
And I’d see this through.
Because if I didn’t, I’d forever wonder about this mystery man who dared to defy my medical advice and walk away from my expert care.
With every step of the way, my convictions solidified.
There was no room left for me to wonder whether Mikhail was a wealthy and powerful man. The building and security around it proved this was no simple apartment complex for typical New Yorkers. Spotting the militaristic men standing sentinel was evidence that I was entering a dangerous area, too.
Fatima was right. So was Jack.
Mikhail Orlov, my patient, most certainly was a dangerous man, an individual entrenched in the Mafia lifestyle.
No matter how cool and calm and collected I tried to look as I stated who I was and why I was here, I couldn’t help but recognize how shaken I was. How intimidating this was.
“Dr. Donovon?” the butler said, likely the same one I’d spoken to earlier when I called. He bowed slightly just inside the massive foyer. As he leaned over, he gestured with his arm out, beckoning me to enter.
“Right this way, please,” he guided, backing up to give me space to enter.
I swallowed hard and glanced one last time at the armed and stoic-faced guards flanking the door.
What in the bloody hell am I thinking, coming here like this?
Disregarding the obvious common sense that I should’ve insisted that Mikhail come back to the hospital for a follow-up appointment, I stepped inside and prayed this wouldn’t be the biggest mistake of my life.
9
MIKHAIL
It shouldn’t have taken a near-death experience to bring Anya out of her room, but that did the trick. Since she was ambushed in the ballroom while she played piano, that night I rushed up to block her and keep her safe, she’d rebelled against me.
