I nod jerkily and let myself be led to a chair to wait until the doctor comes.
The next thirty minutes pass in a blur of pain. The doctor cauterizes the wound—a fresh hell that makes the initial cut seem almost merciful by comparison—stitches it without numbing at Ilya’s orders, according to one of the men with us, and wraps my hand in layers of gauze and bandages. I’m not given painkillers, and I know better than to ask.
My hand throbs with every heartbeat, and the bandage is already seeping through with blood, but I can function. That's all that matters.
Ilya walks in a moment later, on the phone. He ends the call and gestures for me to approach.
"Well?" I ask, my voice rough.
"Iosef has her," he says, and rage floods through me so intensely I see red. "One of his warehouses on the east side. He wants to take her back, I’m guessing, but not before getting revenge for what you did by drawing you there.”
"How many men does he have?"
"At least a dozen. Maybe more." He spreads a map out on the desk, pointing to a location. "It's a defensible position. He'll be expecting you to come for her."
"I don't care if he has a hundred men," I say flatly. "I'm getting her out."
"We're getting her out," Ilya corrects, and something in my chest loosens slightly at the word "we." "This isn't a suicide mission, Kazimir. We do this smart, or we don't do it at all."
Gratitude hits me so hard I have to brace myself against the desk. "Thank you."
His expression hardens. "We get her out, we make sure she and the baby are safe. But what I said stands. You have no future in this organization for now. You’ll have to find your own wayforward. In time, there might be a rebuilding of trust, as I said. But you’ll never be my enforcer again. Understood?”
"Understood."
Ilya nods once, then opens the door. "Then let's go get her."
We gather our forces quickly—sixteen of Ilya's best men, all armed and ready for a fight. I check my weapons with my good hand, my injured hand throbbing but functional enough. The pain is a constant reminder of what I've already sacrificed, what I'm willing to sacrifice still. And I’m capable of shooting with my left, even if Ilya has crippled my right to make the point that my days as his enforcer are over. I’ll just have one weapon instead of two.
The drive to the warehouse is tense and silent. I sit in the back of the SUV, my mind running through scenarios, planning my approach. I'll go in first. I'll draw their fire. I'll do whatever it takes to get to Svetlana?—
Ilya's voice cuts through my thoughts. "You stay behind my men. You're in no condition to?—"
"No."
"Kazimir—"
"No." I turn to him then, and whatever he sees in my face makes him stop. "I'm going in first. I'm the one who put her in danger. I'm the one who's going to get her out."
"You're injured?—"
"I don't care." My voice is flat, final. "You can shoot me yourself if you want, but you're not stopping me from going in there first."
We stare at each other for a long moment. Then Ilya nods slowly. "Fine. But you follow my lead. We do this tactically, not emotionally. Understood?"
"Understood."
It's a lie. There's nothing tactical about what I'm feeling right now. There's only rage and fear and a desperate need to see Svetlana alive, to hold her, to know that our child is safe.
We park two blocks away and approach on foot, moving through the shadows as silently as ghosts. The warehouse looms ahead of us, dark and foreboding.
Svetlana is in there. And no matter what I have to do, I’m going to get her back.
26
SVETLANA
The smell hits me first. Mildew and rust and something else—something that makes my stomach turn even before I open my eyes. Concrete. Old blood. The staleness of air that hasn't circulated properly in years.
