“I don’t know what’s going on,” I ramble. “One of the guards from The Foundry texted me that Devin was here, but no one has told me anything else. I don’t know what happened, there’s nothing on the news sites, at least?—”
But I’m still thinking of that night only days ago, of blood spraying from the politician’s nose, the fight that broke out, the fear. What if it happened again, but Devin was stuck in the middle of that kind of violence? What if someone other than Kazimir pulled a gun in that very room?
Strange that I trust him so explicitly with a weapon, and no one else.
His eyes flick toward the nurses’ station, fast and assessing. “Who did this?”
“That’s not the point,” I say, my voice climbing, cracking under the strain of holding everything in. “The point is that this keeps happening. It keeps happening and nobody ever stops it.”
“Aly—”
“No,” I cut him off, heat surging, tears burning hot behind my eyes. “You don’t get to calm me down. You don’t get to stand there and tell me this is about safety when all it ever does is move the danger somewhere else. What if someone came back because you--? Because I--?”
A nurse glances over. Someone coughs.
“She works her ass off,” I say, words spilling faster now, messy and desperate. “She takes shit from drunk men and entitled men and violent men because that’s how you survive when you don’t have money or connections or someone powerful watching your back. And one day she’s going to push back against the wrong one and end up in a body bag, and everyone will just shrug and say she should have known better.”
My voice breaks hard, the sound ripping out of me before I can stop it.
“You lock me in a beautiful house and call it protection,” I say, chest heaving, “but she’s still out there. Women like her are still out there. Getting hurt. Getting killed. And it's always men with power who walk away untouched.”
The silence that follows is suffocating.
Kazimir’s expression changes slowly, like a storm draining out of the sky. The anger bleeds away, leaving something stripped and raw beneath it. His shoulders lower. His jaw unclenches. When he looks at me now, there is no dominance, no command.
“I hear you,” he says, so softly I almost miss it.
Then he steps back.
He turns and walks away down the corridor, long strides carrying him out of sight without looking back.
I sit there shaking, digging my nails into my palms, and staring after him. I wonder if I’ve just said the one thing neither of us can ever take back.
Eventually the adrenaline starts to burn off, leaving something that feels sour and aching. The double doors open again and Kazimir reappears with a set look on his face. He’s obviously more contained, controlled.
This is the man I saw those first months in America.
This is the leader of the Bratva. This is my father’s boss, the nightmare that haunts other men’s dreams.
This is the man who was under me a week ago, encouraging me totake it,reminding me that he is my first. And he’s walking back toward me.
When he reaches me, I almost melt in relief. But his whisper catches me off guard, clinical and straight forward: “She came in unconscious. Multiple contusions. Bruising. No internal bleeding.”
My breath catches in my throat. “How do you?—”
“She’s awake now,” he continues. “Her wrist is sprained, and they’re following concussion protocol, but they’ll likely let her go home tomorrow morning if everything looks good.”
Okay. She’s okay.
I press my fingers to my mouth, nodding because if I try to speak, I will fall apart.
“I spoke to the attending physician,” Kazimir adds. “And hospital administration.”
Of course he did. How, I have no idea, but I’m starting to believe this man gets what he wants. Hinto. This other syndicate leader; he’s insane going up against a Baranov.
“They will let you go back and see her.”
I stand too fast, dizziness washing over me. Kazimir’s hand lifts reflexively, stopping just short of touching me, hoveringnear my elbow as if he’s forcing himself not to make contact. Then he drops it.
