I wouldn’t stand in his way. I couldn’t bear to hold him back from finding his daughter. Their relationship was a testy one. So far, Anya wouldn’t fill in any details about why she loathed her father so intensely, but I knew that there could be hope for them yet.
He did care about her. I knew he had to, deep down.
But I was helpless to know how to help.
Because I care.
Mikhail was a complicated, larger-than-life force in my existence. I couldn’t tell if I was right to fear and scorn him for being such an instigator of violence and pain or if I should respect and want him for being the source of comfort and generosity—if on his terms.
I didn’t want him to stress and worry. I hated to see him so torn with anger and fear at Anya being taken. Like this, he wasn’t a fierce Mafia man but more like any other parent distressed about his child.
“Martin?”
He turned toward me belatedly, dealing with orders for a couple of men. He was a person of authority around here. Not like Mikhail was, but Martin ran the orderliness of the Orlov building and Mikhail’s residence. He was the Fatima of the floor here, like the charge nurse at the hospital managed the emergency department’s function.
“Yes?” he asked, polite and formal but showing the wear and tear of distraction.
“Can I do anything to help?”
He shook his head, not even seeming to care that I offered to be of assistance. “I will have someone alert you when lunch is ready.”
Even he was dismissing me, walking away and talking to other guards.
I frowned, standing there in the foyer and feeling as distorted and lost as I did the first time I’d come to this place.
“I don’t care about the schedule of fucking meals,” I muttered under my breath.
Being idle went against my nature. Being dismissed in a time of crisis felt like a personal insult.
All day and night, I saw no one from the Orlov organization. Mikhail stayed away, hunting for his daughter. Andre, Sergei, and Roman were gone too, busy and helping their boss. Guards were scarce in the building as all the forces seemed to be redelegated and shifted in this emergency of locating Anya.
And I was left here, without any answers or updates.
Sitting in the ballroom, I tapped the piano keys of the new piano that Anya had started to “teach” me on to pass the time.
Then in the library near the east side of the building, I tried to look for something to read while frequently peeking out the windows to see if Mikhail was pulling into the drive yet.
Hours passed. Daylight gave way to a sunset and then the encroaching darkness.
And still, I had not a single word. It was with my rising impatience and worry that I had to accept it was all changing too quickly.
I could be worried about someone being harmed because I was a doctor. That made sense.
But what didn’t make as much sense was the depth and severity of how concerned I was. Usually, at the hospital, even at a mission, should I ever actually get to one, a clinical distance remained between me and my patients. I cared. Of course, I cared. I had to, and it was instinct to want others to be comfortable, happy, and healthy. It never clawed this far into my heart, though. Not like this nauseating and stomach-twisting anxiety that controlled me as I waited for news about Anya.
Because I care.
Because she matters.
I rubbed my forehead as I cringed, knowing how fruitless and stupid it would be to deny it.
Anya was different. This worry about her wasn’t the same as the general and generic concern I had about my patients.
She was… something more. Just like her father was.
The more I acknowledged my fear for Anya, the more I had to admit that I wasn’t acting like a guest. I wasn’t concerned in the capacity of someone who happened to know Mikhail.
I worried because she was more than a stranger in this hard world I didn’t fit in. Not quite like a friend, but something more.
