6
Lev
Three days out of the hospital, and I’m sending flowers to a woman who could get me killed.
White orchids. Not roses, because roses are predictable, and Polina Kozlov is anything but. They’re elegant without trying too hard, and the florist on Tverskaya told me they symbolize strength and beauty, which felt right even though I’d never admit it.
The card reads:Dr. Kozlov, thank you for your exceptional care. — L.
Not a single detail ties back to the Morozov name or a hospital stay that involved a construction worker named Luka Sorokin. Just a grateful former patient expressing thanks. Perfectly innocent, unless you know what the L. stands for.
This is a test.
If she throws them away, I have my answer.
What happened between us was a mistake she’d rather forget, and I’ll respect that. I promised myself I’d never push her. My old man never cared about boundaries. I do.
If she keeps them, that’s a different conversation.
I’ve got a contact at Moscow General, a janitor named Yuri who owes Ruslan a favor from a gambling debt he’ll never pay off. He’ll tell me what I need to know.
At 3:47 p.m., my phone goes off.
Flowers are on her desk. Still in the vase. She moved them from the side table to right next to her computer.
I read it twice, then I set my phone down and stare at the ceiling.
She kept them.
More than that, she moved them closer. A woman who wants to forget doesn’t do that. She put them where she would see them while she works.
Good.
I’m still riding that high when Ruslan lets himself in without knocking. I should break him of that habit, but I don’t. He’s the only one I trust to walk into my place like that.
“Your father’s asking questions.”
My high evaporates immediately.
Ruslan drops a manila folder on my kitchen counter and leans against the island. The cut on his lip is almost healed, just a thin scab in the corner that neither of us has mentioned.
“He called Gennady last night. Wanted to know why you went to a civilian hospital instead of using Dr. Gagarin.”
“What did Gennady tell him?”
“That he didn’t know. Because he doesn’t. But now he’s asking some of our other men. He’ll keep asking until he gets an answer he likes.”
I rub the back of my neck and exhale through my teeth. This was always going to happen. My father doesn’t tolerate gaps in information, especially when they involve his blood. The fact that I went to an outside hospital instead of the physician who has been stitching up Morozovs for twenty years is a red flag he won’t ignore.
“I’ll call him,” I decide aloud.
“And tell him what?”
“The truth, mostly. I was bleeding out, and getting Gagarin on the line wasn’t possible in the time we had.”
“And when he asks why you didn’t call Gagarin after surgery? When you were stable and conscious for nine days?”
I don’t have a good answer for that one. “I’ll figure it out.”
