I burst out the back service door. Stepan had the SUV waiting, the engine already running. I didn’t wait for him to open the door fully; I practically threw myself into the backseat, still cradling Liza’s limp body.
“Drive. Now. Back to the mansion. Code red security level,” I commanded, my voice raw, the sound of the car peeling out momentarily drowning out the distant sirens already wailing through the city.
I pulled out my phone, my fingers fumbling with the touchscreen. I had to reach out to the medical network we used, the discreet, black-market doctors who asked no questions.
“Get Alina Sokolov online. Now. I want her at the mansion in ten minutes. If she’s not there, I will send men to drag her.”
I tucked the phone away and looked down at Liza. Her skin was cold. I pulled the remnants of her heavy cream cape around her, trying to generate some warmth.
“Hold on, zayka,” I whispered, the Russian endearment slipping out, unprofessional and true. “You do not get to do this. You just became my wife. You will not leave me now.”
The car was a blur of speed and controlled violence. Too soon, we were back at the estate. I didn’t wait for Stepan. I lifted her again, rushing her through the secure, private.
The wedding was a failure. The whole performance was ruined. The interrogation would have to wait. My planned night of forcing the truth from her was over before it began.
The burning rage against Arkady’s rivals was absolute. They had dared to touch what was mine. They had almost killed her. I needed her alive. I needed her safe. And then, I would make every single person responsible for the day regret the moment they crossed the Lobanov name.
Chapter Fourteen
Roman’s POV
The air in the second elevator was thick and hot, smelling faintly of silk and gunpowder. I cradled Liza against my chest, her stillness a heavy, terrifying accusation. I hadn’t carried her to the main medical suite but to our suite, the large, private space that was itself a secured zone within the mansion. She wasn’t a patient; she was a priority asset that had malfunctioned, and I needed absolute containment.
The elevator doors opened onto a luxurious hallway. I strode straight into the bedroom. I laid Liza gently on the massive bed, the cream satin of her wedding dress pooling around her, jarring against the dark velvet comforter. Her skin was unnaturally cold.
I pulled out my phone before I even fully let go of her. My fingers were shaking, but the command was sharp and cold.
“Stepan,” I barked into the receiver. “This is code red. I want the entire perimeter locked down. Anyone seen or spoken to at the wedding is now in lockdown. No one leaves. No one calls out. I want absolute silence. If one word of the attack or Liza’s collapse hits the wire, you call me.”
I didn’t wait for his reply. I severed the connection and immediately called Viktor.
“The press?” I demanded when he answered.
“Handled. Lighting failure. Electrical fire. No injuries. The attackers are being processed,” Viktor’s voice was clipped, professional, already back to business.
“Liza is down. She didn’t take a hit. She collapsed. I need Alina Sokolov here in three minutes. Tell her I will personally burn her facility to the ground if she breathes a word of this. She will enter through the service. Security is her escort.”
“A collapse?” Viktor asked, a rare note of confusion in his voice. “After that? It must be a shock.”
“Don’t tell me what it must be!” I slammed the phone onto the bedside table. My breath hitched. “I need something I can fight, not some damn weakness.”
I paced the rugs in front of the bed. My internal monologue was a storm of protective fury. This couldn’t be just stress. Liza Markova was built of steel and fire. She didn’t faint. No, this was a strategic failure. Arkady’s rivals had used the attack to destabilize my wedding, and somehow, they had poisoned her or injured her in a way my guards missed. That was the only logical answer.
The entire façade of the wedding, the controlled transaction, had been ruined on the altar. Now, my profound sense of strategic failure turned into a need for immediate, brutal retaliation. I couldn’t move on the rivals until I knew she was stable. The thought of losing her, losing my leverage, losing the future of my investigation made the blood pound against my skull.
A discreet knock signaled that the service entrance was being used. The door opened. Alina Sokolov entered first, small and serious, carrying her medical bag. She was escorted by two silent, massive guards.
Then, the unnecessary clutter arrived. Emilia and Isabella followed, their faces pale, their eyes wide with worry.
“Roman,” Emilia said, rushing to the side of the bed. “Is she awake? What happened?”
I met her eyes, my own blazing. “She is fine. And you are here for comfort, nothing more. Alina is in charge. Don’t distract her. She needs absolute quiet.”
I waved a hand toward the wall. “Alina. You have three minutes to tell me what’s wrong with my wife. If it’s not aninjury, I want to know why this happened on my watch. Get to work.”
Alina didn’t look at me. She looked at the patient. She set her black bag on the nightstand and began pulling on sterile gloves. The inspection had begun, and I could only watch, trapped in my own suite, consumed by worry.
I stood near the door, my arms crossed tight over my chest, radiating a tension that was enough to make the crystal chandeliers crack. Alina, however, seemed immune. She worked with methodical, almost insulting calmness, attaching monitors and checking Liza’s pulse at the wrist.
