I cross the hall from my cabin into the one we converted into an infirmary. The doctor I hired to treat the man has the room next door. The three nurses on shift have cabins on the deck below. I nod at the nurse and gesture for her to leave. Once she’s gone, I turn my focus on their patient. He looks much better than he did, which is a relief. The bruising has turned from an ugly bluish-purple into a yellowish-green. Bandages still cover the bullet holes, but I assume they’re healing, too.
Grabbing the chair the nurse had been using, I pull it closer to the bed and take a seat. There are other seats in the room, but Dominic chooses to lean against the door with his arms crossed. I consider reaching over to shake the patient awake, but I’m not in a hurry. He needs his rest. I’m hoping that by the time we reach St. Petersburg, he’ll be mobile.
We have only been waiting for twenty minutes when the man groans, and his eyes pop open. Instead of looking around, he stares at the ceiling. I cough to gain his attention. His eyes flick to me and widen.
“I know you,” he croaks out.
“You do,” I agree. “It’s been a long time. I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me.”
He glances around the room before returning his attention to me. “Where am I? What happened?”
“Don’t you remember?”
Alexi shakes his head. “I only remember leaving my house. I was supposed to meet a few friends for lunch. We were going to meet at a nightclub that one of the guys owns. I can’t remember if I made it there.”
“Who were you meeting?” I ask.
“Oleg Petrov, Pavel Nazarov, and Artem Sorokin. Their fathers work with my father.”
I glance at Dominic, who nods before leaving the room. He’ll contact our tech guy and ask him to run the men. I recognize the surnames as those associated with the Bratva, but I don’t know much about the three sons.
“Are you friends with them?” I ask.
Alexi shrugs, but then he hisses. “Shit, that hurts. What the hell happened to me?”
“Three men beat and shot you, then left you for dead,” I start. “When I heard you’d gone missing, I sent out feelers. For days, nothing. Then a message came through from a Ukrainian contact who recognized you.”
Alexi’s brow creases, so I slow my words.
“He said that he saw you dragged off the back of a truck by three Russian soldiers. No insignia, no questions. They beat you first—methodical, like they were trying to make a point. Then they shot you. Three times.” My jaw tightens despite myself. “They left you there. Drove off like you were already dead.”
His fingers twitch against the sheet.
“The Ukrainians moved in once the truck was gone,” I say. “They found you bleeding out in the dirt and patched you upas best they could. Kept you hidden. Kept you alive.” I meet his eyes. “Barely.”
A breath rattles out of him, and I wait until it steadies.
“I got you out of Ukraine and into the States. I planned to have you recuperate there before putting you on a plane and flying you home. However, something came up, and I had to change those plans.”
“Where are we?” Alexi asks, finally noticing his surroundings.
“We’re on a ship headed for St. Petersburg. Your father believes you are dead. He knows you somehow ended up in Ukraine and believes the Ukrainians killed you when they took back the town. Your father was told you died while fighting for Russia.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. My father told me he made sure the army wouldn’t touch me.”
“They told him you enlisted,” I tell him.
Alexi shakes his head. “He believed them? He had to know that I wouldn’t have chosen to join the army. I didn’t think we should be attacking Ukraine.”
“I don’t know what your father believes, except that you are dead. It’s why he’s announced his plan for your successor.”
“My successor?”
“Yes. Your father wants someone to take over Stepanov Industries and serve as the head of the Bratva. He’s holding a birthday party in three weeks. He plans to announce who will be taking over for you. I plan to get you to St. Petersburg in time to claim your birthright. You’ll have two weeks to recuperate. No one can find you here, so you’ll be safe.”
“So,” he says finally, voice rough. “My father is appointing my replacement.”
“He believes you’re dead,” I reply evenly. “Stepanov Industries. The Bratva. All of it. He’s preparing to hand it over.”
