I stay with Dmitri as Alexei speaks quietly into his phone, giving an address. My father does the same a few feet away—I catch fragments: “FBI Special Agent Turner…shots fired at my residence…one deceased, one critical…need a bus immediately.” He disappears for a moment, returning with towels, pressing one against Dmitri’s side.
The sirens come fast, too fast, but not fast enough.
Dmitri’s breathing grows shallow, each breath a battle. I lean close, brushing my hand against his face. “Hey,” I whisper, trying to fight back the tears already streaming down my cheeks. “Look at me. I believe you. I believe everything you said.”
His eyes struggle to focus. “Mireille…”
“I love you,” I tell him. My voice breaks. “Do you hear me? I love you.”
He tries to smile, but it’s faint, slipping away as his eyes roll back and his body goes slack.
“No!” I press closer, cupping his face, then shaking him gently. “Stay with me, Dmitri—please.”
Hands pull me back as the paramedics rush in. They work fast, their voices clipped and professional as they stabilize Dmitri and load him onto a stretcher.
I cannot lose him.
Someone guides me toward the corner of the room. I realize it’s Viktor, his hand firm on my shoulder, his voice low. “He’ll fight. He always does.”
Outside, the flashing lights of the ambulance and police cars paint the street in blue and red. The neighbors have gathered on the sidewalk, whispering, staring. Somewhere behind us, Sergei's body lies covered by a sheet—I can't bring myself to look.
My father stands near the police, his voice steady as he recounts the perfect lie, “We were having dinner when Sergei broke in. He opened fire. Viktor shot him in self-defense.” He flashes his badge, and I watch the officers' postures shift—deferential now, one law enforcement officer to another.
The officer nods, jotting down notes.
Another officer approaches Viktor, but my father intercepts. “He’s the one who stopped the shooter. He’s in shock—I’ll bring him in for a formal statement tomorrow.” The officer hesitates, glances at Viktor’s expensive suit and calm demeanor, then nods.
As they load Dmitri into the ambulance, I try to follow, but an EMT blocks my way. “You can’t come with him, miss.”
“He’s hurt—he needs me.”
“We’ll take care of him,” she promises gently before climbing in and shutting the doors.
My father appears at my side. “Go with Alexei. I’ll handle things here and meet you at the hospital.” His voice drops. “The story is simple—home invasion, self-defense. Stick to that if anyone asks.”
The siren wails as it pulls away, and I stand frozen in the street, watching until the sound of the siren fades into the distance and the street begins to clear out.
Alexei’s car idles at the curb. He steps toward me, his expression carved from stone, but his eyes softer than I’ve ever seen them. “We’ll follow the ambulance,” he says quietly, holding open the backseat door for me.
I nod numbly and step into the car. He closes the door gently and goes around to the passenger's side while Viktor slides into the driver’s seat.
As we drive, I press my palm to the faint smear of Dmitri’s blood on my dress and whisper a prayer to whatever god cares to listen.
“Please, save him.”
***
Aside from the pungent smell of antiseptic, hospitals have a sound—that low, constant hum of machines, voices, and footsteps that wears on the mind, magnifying anxiety and distress.
I hate hospitals so much. But here I am, in the waiting room of the hospital, my clothes stained with the blood of the man I love.
Anya sits beside me, her hands clasped tightly around mine. She hasn’t let go since she got here. I'm grateful for her presence since it's the only thing anchoring me to sanity.
Through the waiting room window, I can see the hallway leading to the surgical wing. A red sign glows above the double doors: SURGERY IN PROGRESS.
The paramedics who brought Dmitri in gave us a rough overview of his condition. She said it was bad. A bullet to the abdomen. Massive blood loss. One of the doctors came out briefly and told us they're not sure if he’ll make it. The words keep replaying in my head, over and over, until they stop meaning anything at all. The tears on my face have already dried up, and all I can do is hope and pray.
Anya squeezes my hand. “He’s strong,” she whispers. “Dmitri’s always been strong. He’ll fight his way back.”
