Sato was handling beefed-up security around the bratva. I had to keep him occupied so he wouldn’t mope and haunt the halls of the hospital feeling useless and guilty as fuck that Lucy got badly hurt.
Lucy was off the ventilator, and I had her moved to a suite close to the ICU with all the monitoring equipment necessary. Sato stationed two soldiers on the floor and another one inside the living room.
Sloane had come in with Bianca. Somehow, I wondered if their appearance this morning, a day after Anya’s killing, was attributed to their interest in true crime. “Ladies,” I murmured tiredly from my chair in front of Lucy’s bed.
“So Lucy is off the ventilator,” Sloane said. “That’s good news.”
“Yes,” I said shortly.
“I’m glad they didn’t have to extend it. I told Dom the next step would have been a tracheotomy.”
“Doctor Ripley mentioned that possibility if her oxygen levels were a problem.” I turned to the woman beside her. “Bianca, I’m surprised to see you without your shadow.”
She laughed briefly. “Hey, my husband’s not my constant stalker.”
“He doesn’t want her around you by herself,” Sloane teased.
“And yet here you are.”
“Oh, the De Luccis have been singing your praises about being a devoted husband,” Bianca said. “Sandro approves.”
“Really. The De Luccis, hmm? Or is it just Lottie?”
Sloane laughed.
Lucy’s parents had been constant visitors. Morning and night. They drove me crazy, but I couldn’t blame them. It took two days before Lottie could bring herself to ask me how I wasand to ask for medical updates. Paulie was still a simmering rock of anger, and all he exchanged with me were grim, tight-jawed nods of acknowledgment. I could understand that because Irina said the same about me. Something about a heavy black cloud hovering above me, threatening to lash out at people who said the wrong thing. I shouldn’t hold it in. The release valve was two nights ago when we wiped out Oz’s crew.
“The De Luccis are a tough bunch,” Bianca responded, walking over to Lucy’s bedside and gazing down at her with tenderness, patting her shoulder, and holding her hand.
“You are, and I’m married to one,” I muttered.
“Is that a complaint, Kirill Zahkarov?”
“No, it’s said with fondness,” I deadpanned. “But tell me the reason you guys are really here.”
“What?” Bianca said. “We’re visiting Lucy.”
I raised a brow. “And there’s no other motive.”
The two side-eyed each other.
“You all want to know what I know about Anya Davenport’s murder.”
“Well, was she your mistress?”
“Absolutely not,” I growled.
“Then she doesn’t fit the profile.”
“It’s a copycat,” I said. “That’s Peter’s first mistake.”
“Peter? The Moscow mob, right?” Bianca asked.
“Yes.”
“Dom said the medical examiner hasn’t filed an official cause of death yet. It might take another twenty-four hours for the preliminary report,” Sloane said. “But someone in the true crime discussion thread thinks this is the real deal.”
I made a scoffing sound.
