Page 77 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

The physical sensation is horrific, a hot, tearing vacuum that feels like my entire lung is being ripped out through my side as the plastic tube slides free from my chest. I let out a loud, animalistic roar of pure, agonizing pain, my back arching off the cot, my teeth grinding together so hard, a chip of enamel bites into my tongue.

Blood, hot and thick, immediately fountains from the open wound, soaking through my white bandages and dripping onto the concrete floor.

"Stitches! Now!" I growl, my chest heaving as I try to draw a shallow, whistling breath of the bleach-scented air. "Tape it shut, Yuri. I’m standing up."

Yuri is shaking, his latex gloves slick with my blood as he tears a strip of heavy medical adhesive from the roll. He presses a thick pad of sterile gauze over the hole, his fingers digging into my ribs to hold the pressure. "You’re going to bleed out before we even reach the car, Ilya! Your blood pressure is dropping!"

"I don't care," I rasp, my good hand grabbing the metal frame of the bed as I swing my legs over the edge.

The movement is a blinding white wall of agony.

My thighs are numb, the muscles stiff and cold from where the steel beam crushed them, but as my bare feet touch the cold concrete, the pain hits my brain like a physical hammer. The stitches along my left side and my thigh instantly snap, a warm, wet rush of fresh blood soaking through my trousers, turning the grey cotton into a deep, dark red.

I stumble, my knees bucking, my weight falling forward.

Petr catches me by the shoulder, his cane creaking under our combined weight as he holds me steady. He doesn't tell me to lie down. He doesn't tell me I’m being a fool. He just grinds his teeth, his hand solid on my arm until my feet find their balance on the stone.

"You're a stubborn bastard, Kovalevskii," Petr pants, his face pale from the effort of holding me up.

"I’m her husband," I say, my jaw set, my breathing shallow and fast.

Yuri steps in front of me, his hand holding a silver syringe filled with a clear, sparkling liquid. "Morphine, Pakhan. Just enough to dull the edge so you can hold a rifle. If you don't take it, the shock is going to stop your heart before you reach the southern channel."

I look at the needle, then at his face. I raise my right hand, my palm flat and heavy, and slap the syringe out of his grip. The glass shatters against the concrete floor, the clear liquid pooling in the dust.

"No drugs," I growl, my voice a flat, freezing whisper. "I need the pain. If I can't feel the side of my body, I won't know if I’m dying. The pain keeps me focused. The pain keeps me sharp."

Yuri stares at the broken glass on the floor, his mouth opening slightly in a mixture of terror and absolute disbelief. He slowly backs away, his hands rising in a gesture of submission. "You're a monster, Ilya."

"I am," I say, my eyes dark, cold, and completely empty of any human mercy. "Now get the gear."

The armory in the sub-basement is a narrow, brick-walled vault that smells of gun oil, packing grease, and cold stone.

I’m standing in front of the gun rack, my hands moving in a slow, painful blur as I check the chamber of my AK-74. My dislocated left shoulder is hanging loose, a dull, dead weight that I can barely lift, but I grab a heavy roll of black duct tape from the workbench. I wrap the tape tightly around my shoulder and my chest, binding the joint flat against my rib cage to keep it from shifting when I move. The pressure is suffocating, turning every breath into a short, stabbing gasp, but it holds the bone in place.

I slide six thirty-round magazines into my tactical vest, the heavy steel cartridges clicking sharply into the fabric.

My remaining captains, only six of them left, the survivors of the southern gate detail, stand in a line near the steel table, their faces pale, tight, and completely silent under the flickering light of the bulb. They are all that is left of my empire. The men I raised, the men I paid, the men who survived the thermite blast.

"We are six men," Lev says, his head bandaged with a bloody cloth, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. "And Petr has eight of his old guard. We’re going against forty Russo enforcers with thermal scopes, Ilya. It’s a suicide run."

"Then don't come," I say, my voice flat as I slide a fresh magazine into the well of my rifle. "I’m going to the shipyard. If you want to stay in this basement and wait for Viktor Russo to find you, that’s your business."

Lev looks at the captains, then back at me, a sudden, dark pride settling into his jaw. He clears his safety with a sharp click. "I’ve been a Kovalevskii since I was fifteen, Pakhan. I’m not starting a new career today."

The other captains nod once, their faces turning into hard, silent masks as they check their weapons.

Petr steps into the room wearing a heavy bulletproof vest under his dark coat, holding a modified submachine gun in his hand. He looks at my bound shoulder, then at the bloody bandages showing through my torn shirt. "The fog is rolling in off the southern channel, Ilya. The visibility at the docks is down to five yards. The thermal scopes won't be able to track us through the mist if we stay close to the water."

"Then we use the water," I say, my boots thudding as I walk toward the stairs. "We use the old cargo barges to bypass the main gate. They won't expect a river breach if they think I’m dead under the house."

"And Mikhail?" Petr asks, his hand tightening on his cane as we ascend the stairs into the damp evening air.

"He’s mine," I growl, my jaw set, the cold ice in my blood finally turning back into a steady, freezing rage.

We climb into the back of two unmarked black delivery vans parked in the alley behind the dry cleaners. The engine rumbles to life with a low, heavy vibration, the tires splashing through the wet gravel as we pull out into the dark, misty streets of the city.

I lean my head back against the metal wall of the van, my eyes closing as I listen to the steady, rhythmic hum of the tires against the asphalt.