They exchange a glance, some silent communication passing between them, then Kirill nods. "Alright. I'll get you one from the vending machine outside, but you're only getting one, not a whole six-pack."
He disappears down the hall while Roman guides me to a row of uncomfortable plastic chairs outside the surgical wing, and I sink into one with my head in my hands.
My mind won't stop racing with terrible possibilities.
What if it is Ilay orchestrating this from the shadows?
What if he sent that assassin as a message to my family?
What if I'm the reason my father is lying on an operating table right now fighting for his life?
Kirill comes back with a beer and hands it to me without a word, then I take it and drink half of it in one long gulp that burns going down.
"Easy," Roman says, watching me with concern. "You're going to make yourself sick if you keep drinking that fast."
"I don't care," I mutter, staring at the beer bottle in my hands.
They sit with me in silence after that, neither of them trying to fill the quiet with empty reassurances. Hours crawl by while the doctors work behind those closed doors, the three of us sitting in that sterile hallway while I spiral deeper into guilt with every minute that passes.
Finally, one of the surgeons comes out still wearing his scrubs with flecks of blood on them. "He's out of surgery," he says, pulling his mask down. "We managed to extract the bullet successfully, it was lodged near his lung but we got it out clean, he's stable now but he's not awake yet."
My chest tightens painfully. "When will he wake up?"
"It'll be at least two weeks, possibly longer. We had to put him in a medically induced coma so that he could recover without interruptions considering his age. The “more” depends solely on how his body responds to the trauma," the doctor says gently. "He's an older man and the gunshot wound was severe, his body needs substantial time to heal from this kind of injury, but I can assure you he's out of immediate danger now."
"Two weeks?" I repeat, feeling like the floor just dropped out from under me. "Possibly more," the doctor confirms. "We'll be monitoring him closely throughout his recovery, but for now all we can do is wait for him to regain consciousness on his own, you're welcome to sit with him if you'd like."
I nod quickly, standing up so fast I feel dizzy. "Yes. Please. I want to see him."
Roman and Kirill stand up with me, flanking me on either side as we follow the doctor down the hallway to the recovery room.
My father lies there on the hospital bed looking so pale and fragile, hooked up to more machines than I can count, an IV drip in his arm, a heart monitor beeping steadily beside him, With oxygen tubes in his nose.
He looks nothing like the powerful mafia boss who bought me an entire store's worth of dresses just this morning. I pull a chair up beside his bed with shaking hands and take his hand gently, careful not to disturb any of the wires. "I'm here, Dad," I whisper, my voice breaking. "I'm not going anywhere, I promise." Roman and Kirill stand by the door, watching quietly while I sit there holding our father's hand.
Closing my eyes I let out a small prayer. I can’t lose my father. I can’t lose another parent. Not again. And certainly not when I just got him.
"We'll take shifts," Roman says after a moment. "Make sure someone's always here with him in case something changes."
I nod without taking my eyes off my father's face. "Thank you."
Kirill steps forward, his usual mask of indifference cracking just slightly. "He's going to be fine, Iris. Dad's survived worse than this."
"I know," I whisper. The days that follow blur together into an endless cycle of sitting beside his bed, holding his hand, talking to him even though he can't hear me, telling him stories about my life in Germany, about law school, about Mom, about how much I miss her, about how scared I am right now.
The twins keep their word, rotating shifts so someone is always in the room with him, Roman bringing me food I barely touch, Kirill bringing me books I can't focus on reading.
• • •
Two weeks pass with agonizing slowness, every day the same routine of sitting with him, checking for any sign of improvement, watching the monitors, listening to the steady beep of his heartbeat and doing the exact same thing with Tessa once one of the twins take over.
Then one afternoon while I'm sitting beside his bed reading aloud from one of the books Kirill brought me, I see his fingers twitch.
My breath catches in my throat. "Dad?" I whisper, setting the book down. His eyes flutter open slowly, unfocused at first,trying to adjust to the light. "Dad!" I say louder, leaning forward, squeezing his hand.
His eyes finally find mine after a moment of confusion, then a weak smile crosses his face. "There she is," he says, his voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. "My beautiful girl."
Tears spill down my face immediately, hot relief flooding through me. "You're awake. Oh my God, you're actually awake."
