We carry them to separate guest rooms in the main house where the family doctor is already waiting to receive them. He moves quickly between the two beds to check pulses, clean their wounds, and hook them up to the monitors that beep rhythmically in the silence.
After what feels like an eternity, he steps back and wipes his hands on a towel, his expression grave and serious.
"Miss Iris is stable," he reports, keeping his voice low. "She has severe bruising and is suffering from acute shock, but physically, she will recover with rest and time."
He pauses and turns his gaze toward the bed where Tessa lies motionless.
"The other girl, however, is in much worse shape," he says, and the words land like heavy stones in the quiet room. "Shetook the brunt of the assault, likely while trying to defend the other."
I feel a cold knot tighten in my stomach. "She has two broken ribs and a hairline fracture to her skull," the doctor continues while adjusting the drip on Tessa's arm. "We need to monitor her intracranial pressure closely through the night because if the swelling worsens, I will have to take her into surgery immediately to relieve the pressure."
The air leaves my lungs. Surgery. She was fighting them off, running her mouth, and being brave, and now she is lying here broken because we left them unprotected. "Do whatever you have to do," I say, my voice sounding rough and foreign to my own ears. "Just save her."
The doctor nods and steps back into the shadows to update his charts. I sit in the heavy silence of Tessa's room, my knuckles turning white as I grip the edge of the chair next to her bed, watching the shallow, pained rise and fall of her chest. She looks so small against the white sheets, and her face is a map of violence that I failed to prevent.
The guest room is too grand for this kind of situation; high ceilings edged with ornate crown molding, dark walnut floors softened by thick rugs, walls dressed in muted cream paneling meant to look warm but feeling sterile tonight. A chandelier glows dim overhead, its light reflected in the tall mirror across from the bed.
Three doors sit within my line of sight. One leads to the hallway where staff move quietly. Another stands slightly ajar, connecting this room to the adjoining guest suite — the one Dad refuses to leave. The third is a carved paneled door that hides the walk-in closet, and beyond the archway to my left sits the marble bathroom, its lights left on, spilling a pale glow across the floor.
Dad is in the adjoining room, sitting beside the daughter he never knew he had, holding her hand like he is trying to anchor her soul to this world. Kirill stands in the doorway between the two rooms with his face dark and shadows clinging to him like a second skin.
"We have a sister," he says quietly, the words feeling strange and heavy in the air. I nod reality settling in my gut. "And she almost died," Kirill whispers, looking from Iris to Tessa. "And that girl... she took a beating trying to protect a Miroslav."
"She defended our blood when we were not there to do it," I say, the rage boiling up in my throat again. Dad appears in the doorway, and his eyes meet ours. The grief we saw earlier is gone, replaced entirely by a cold, calculated fury that promises death.
He does not speak. He nods once. He knows exactly what we are going to do next. They laid hands on our sister, and they broke the woman who fought to save her. And there is no redemption for that.
Chapter 24
????
ILAY
When I finally drag myself from the depths of unconsciousness, the first thing that assaults my senses is the blinding, sterile white of the ceiling. The walls match the pristine brightness, closing in on me, while the sharp, chemical scent of antiseptic burns my nostrils, telling me exactly where I am before I even try to move.
The voices I hear outside the sterile room tells me something else. I am back in Russia.
My body feels like it is made of lead, weighed down by layers of thick bandages wrapped tightly around my chest, my shoulder, and my thigh. Every shallow breath sends a spike of agony radiating through my nerves, but I shove the physical sensation aside because it is irrelevant compared to the panic clawing at my throat.
"Where is she?" I rasp, my voice sounding foreign to my ears. "Where is she? Did anybody find her? Is she safe?" The heavy door bursts open, and Natalya rushes in, her face pale and drawn with exhaustion. "Thank God you are awake," she breathes, her voice cracking with relief as she reaches for my hand, squeezing it tight. "I was so worried, Ilay. When they found you unconscious, bleeding out in the middle of that godforsaken road, I thought I was going to lose you."
I yank my hand away from her grip, having no patience for sympathy. "I am fine. Where is Iris? Tell me where she is." Natalya pulls back, her expression turning into pity. "We don'tknow where they took her. But Ilay... looking at the situation... I think it is best if you just let her go."
The air leaves the room. And I snap. I shoot up from the bed, ignoring the searing pain that tears through my stitched wounds, and grab Natalya's face, forcing her to look at me. My face is inches from hers, as my voice drops to a deadly, quiet whisper.
"Natalya," I say, and enunciate every word slowly. "Don't. Don't you ever, and I meanever, ask me to give up the woman I love." I release her roughly, and she stumbles back, her eyes wide with fear. "Send all the men, scour everywhere. I want you to tear apart every street, burn down every safe house, and bleed every contact until we get a name. Find her. I don't care how many enemies I make today or how much blood I have to spill. Find my wife."
Natalya stands frozen for a moment, rubbing her jaw where I gripped her. Then she nods quickly, recognizing the monster staring back at her. "Okay. Yes, Pakhan." She turns and leaves the room immediately.
I lean back against the pillows, a groan escaping my lips as the adrenaline fades slightly, leaving room for the pain to return. My chest feels like it is on fire, and every breath is a struggle against the bandages constricting my ribs. "I failed her," I mutter to the empty room, the taste of bile rising in my throat. "With all my big talk and bravado, I allowed her to be snatched right out of my hands."
I press my hand against the bandage on my chest, digging my fingers in until I feel the sharp sting of the wound beneath. I want it to hurt. I deserve to hurt. In my head, a thousand nightmares play out on a loop. I picture them beating her, torturing her, breaking her spirit. If it was someone in the mafiaworld who took her...and I know it was...I can't even let myself imagine the horrors she is currently enduring.
Was she eating? Did they give her water? Was she terrified and wondering why I hadn't come for her yet? The thought makes me sick to my stomach. A few of my men enter the room, their faces grim and serious as they bow slightly. "Pakhan," one of them says. "We have alerted the Volkov Unit."
The Volkov Unit. My most skilled men...a group of five elite trackers and assassins who function more like ghosts than soldiers. They could find anyone on earth, no matter how deep they buried themselves. "Find her," I commanded. "You have twenty-four hours. If you don't bring me a location by then, every single one of you will start dying. One by one."
The men stiffen, fear flashing in their eyes. "Yes, Pakhan." They turn and leave immediately to execute my orders. I try to stand, gritting my teeth against the agony that shoots up my leg. I cannot just sit here in a sterile hospital bed while my injuries are tended to and she is out there, God knows where, going through hell.
