Under His Protection: A Dark Mafia Romance

20. The Hospital

The hospital room’ssterile white walls seem to assess and watch me. The steady beep, beep, beep of the heart monitor has become a harrowing sound. On one hand, with every beep, I know he’s alive. On the other hand, I worry that the sounds will stop any minute, and he’ll be gone.

Alexander lies on the bed, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath, a network of tubes and wires snaking across his bruised and battered body. An oxygen mask covers his nose and mouth, muffling the rasp of his breath. Even in sleep, his brow is furrowed, his lips pressed into a tight line.

The doctor has assured me the bullet has missed his vital organs and that he will recover. But the sight of him, so vulnerable, so broken, makes my stomach clench.

I shift in the uncomfortable chair beside his bed, my aches and pains fading into the background as I stare at him. I don’t know how long has passed, how many hours, or days? More? It all feels like a blur.

The door creaks open, and Harvey steps into the room, his stern face worn and tired. His blue uniform is rumpled, the fabric pulled tight across his shoulders. His gray hair is tousled, and dark circles underscore his eyes. I flinch, a leftover instinct from the chaos of the last few days.

At least Harvey is safe, and that means, for now, I am, too.

He is followed by Monroe, the guy I met at the station. He’s carrying a vase with lilies, and his tall frame seems to fill the doorway. Smiling at me, Monroe straightens his uniform, his badge gleaming on his chest. His sandy hair is neatly combed, and his blue eyes are bright and alert.

I guess he’s getting more sleep than Harvey.

“Ava,” Harvey says, his voice low, his gaze moving from me to Alexander. He pulls me into a rough hug. Something pricks behind my eyelids, a familiar ache that threatens to spill over. I hug him back.

“How is he?” Monroe asks, putting the flowers on a table near Alexander’s bed. “My wife made me bring these.”

I hate lilies. Their scent reminds me of my parents” funeral, a heavy, suffocating reminder of loss. The aroma makes me gag, but I force a smile, trying to appear composed.

“He’ll be okay,” I say. “The bullet missed his vital organs.”

I glance at Alexander, and my shoulders relax just a fraction, but the fear, a coiled serpent, still lurks in the shadows of my mind.

We aren’t safe. Not yet. Cole might be alive and coming for us.

Monroe steps closer, placing a hand on my shoulder, his touch surprisingly gentle. “You did good, Ava,” he says, his blue eyes meeting mine, a flicker of something—knowing in their depths. “You saved him.”

But I couldn’t save Michelle.

“Is Cole—is he under arrest?” I ask.

Harvey shakes his head, his expression grim. “The building and warehouse were empty when we arrived. He’s gone.”

My heart sinks. Gone. He is out there, plotting his revenge, and we are sitting ducks in this sterile, brightly lit room. The two guards Harvey has posted outside feel like a joke against whatever the Raven has built.

I haven’t told Harvey about the girls and Katerina. I’m scared for them, terrified that they’ll be left unprotected if they go into custody. They are now okay, safe with Isaac and a few more men loyal to Alexander at his safe house.

“Don’t worry, Ava,” Monroe says, narrowing his eyes. “We’ll find him. He won’t get away with this.” His eyes linger on me for a moment, a strange intensity in their depths, before he turns and follows Harvey out of the room.

“Stay put, Ava,” Monroe says, pausing at the doorway. He smiles and gestures to the men outside, “You’ll be safe here.”

The air in the hospital room smells like antiseptic and ethanol. The clock on the wall ticks and ticks and ticks, and each second, a small hammer blows against my head. I watch Alexander sleep; his face is a distorted canvas of bruises and cuts. He stirs, his eyelids fluttering open, his gaze meeting mine, a flicker of recognition in their depths.

“Alexander?” I whisper, my voice a touch too loud in the hushed room.

He winces, a grimace crossing his face. His breath hitches, shallow and uneven. I take his hand in mine. He’s surprisingly warm. His skin is clammy, damp with sweat.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

“Like I’ve been run over by a truck,” he says, a weak smile on his lips.

“You were lucky to survive that,” I say. I bite my lip, trying to keep the tears at bay.

The silence in the room feels like it’s choking me; the only sound is the relentless beep, beep, beep of the heart monitor, a metronome keeping time. It’s as if the room itself is holding its breath, waiting.

There are muffled sounds of hushed voices drifting in from the hallway. Maybe the police officers are taking a break, grabbing a cup of coffee, or perhaps they’re discussing the shift change. For a moment, I envy their normalcy, their ability to step away from the chaos, even for a few minutes.

They’ll go home tonight, sleeping safely next to their wives or husbands.

“Michelle—” Alexander says, his voice a choked rasp. I lock eyes with him, and there’s a pain in them.

Michelle’s face, a mask of frozen terror, flashes before my eyes. The anger inside me is a wildfire, a raging inferno. The Raven. He did this. He took her from us. I want to scream, to tear down every wall in this room, to tear down every wall in this city, to make him pay. But for now, all I can do is hold onto the icy calm that’s a thin veneer over the violent feelings raging within me.

“Do you remember?” I ask. “Michelle— she’s—”

He nods slowly, his jaw clenching, a single tear tracing a path down his bruised cheek. It’s the silence that speaks the loudest. It’s the silence of the fallen, the silence of the loss, the silence of a love for a sister that was cruelly stolen.

I shift in the uncomfortable plastic chair, the coldness of the metal frame seeping into my bones. The starched and stiff sheets on the bed feel scratchy beneath my touch.

I want to reach out, to hold him close, to absorb his pain into my own. But I can’t. Not now. He needs his strength. He needs to heal. And so do I.

Nightfall paints the hospital windows a deep indigo, the city lights twinkling like a million distant stars. I curl up in the chair beside Alexander’s bed, my hand resting lightly on his, our fingers intertwined. Exhaustion pulls at me, but sleep is a fleeting dream, chased away by the shadows of our past.

The plastic oxygenmask muffles Alexander’s rasping breathing, making it seem like he’s breathing underwater, far away, a whisper from a world I can’t reach. I watch him, my hand resting lightly on his. His skin is warm beneath my touch.

Did I sleep? I must have.

A muffled thump from the hallway shatters the quiet. My eyes fly open. I sit up, my heart hammering against my ribs, a trapped bird desperate to escape.

What was that?

Every nerve ending in my body screams with a raw, primal awareness. I strain to hear, my gaze darting around the room, seeking the source of the sound. Another noise, a soft scrape against the linoleum floor outside, just beyond the door.

Beside me, Alexander stirs. His eyes flicker open, their blue depths clouded with pain and a sudden, sharp alertness. He pushes himself up on one elbow, wincing as a grimace of pain twists his features. The movement rustles the starched white sheets, the sound amplified in the stillness.

“Did you hear that?” His voice is raspy, a mere thread of sound.

I nod, my throat too tight to speak.

Our gazes lock, a silent conversation passing between us. He doesn’t need to speak the words; I can see the question in his eyes, the warning lights that flash on and off. Someone is out there.

A figure passes by in the hallway, a shadow in the harsh light. I can’t make out his face, only his broad shoulders. Monroe? My heart skips a beat. What’s he doing here? He’s not on shift.

My eyes flick to the lilies on the table, stark white against the sterile walls, and then back to the hallway window. The shadow’s gone, but my unease lingers.

My mind replays Monroe’s words, “You saved Alexander.”

How does he know? I haven’t spoken a word about the warehouse. Not a whisper. I’ve been here the whole time, guarding Alexander’s sleep, his breaths, his life. Harvey said the debriefing could wait. I just gave him the information, a barebone map of the warehouse and its location. But how did Monroe know? The pieces don’t fit.

My gaze stays on the vase of flowers on the bedside table. The lilies from Officer Monroe.

“You think?” I whisper.

And Alexander knows what I mean.

He reaches for the flowers, his movements slow and deliberate, careful not to dislodge the IV line that snakes from his arm. His fingers brush against the petals. One falls onto the cold metal of the IV stand. With a grimace, he tips the vase, water cascading onto the table, the white blooms tumbling onto the bed.

He probes the bottom of the vase, his fingers searching, his brow furrowed. Then, his fingers emerge, holding a small, black object no bigger than my thumbnail. It glints under the low light.

My blood turns to ice. “A bug,” I mime with my lips.

Monroe planted a bug; why?

He nods, his gaze meeting mine, silently confirming our suspicions. He raises a finger to his lips.

“Message Isaac,” he says quietly.

Nodding, I pull out the phone, keeping my eyes glued to the door. The steady beep of the heart monitor becomes relentless. We are trapped in the room, weakened. Even here, the darkness has found us.

It’s too late; even Isaac can’t reach us in time if Monroe is outside.

The beep, beep, beep of the heart monitor quickens as I look around for another exit. There are none. Alexander’s eyes dart to the door, his jaw clenches, his hand instinctively reaching for the bandage on his chest.

“We have to go,” he rasps. “Now.”

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, steadying himself on my arm.

He’s dizzy and hurt; we will not make it out of here.

I nod, adrenaline surging through me, chasing away the initial shock. We move silently, like shadows, toward the window. Maybe there’s a fire escape? The cool night air seeping through the cracked pane smells of rain.

I peek out the window. There is a fire escape!

The door creaks open, revealing Monroe’s tall frame at the entrance to the room. He’s in civilian clothing. His eyes, usually bright and alert, are narrowed. His gaze sweeps over the room, landing on the overturned vase and the scattered flowers.

“Everything alright in here?” he asks, his voice calm.

“Just a little accident,” I say, my voice strained, trying to keep the tremor out. I stand frozen, my heart hammering against my ribs, my gaze darting between Alexander, who is now leaning against the window frame, and the door, our escape route.

“Clumsy,” Monroe chuckles, taking a step into the room. But his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. They are cold and calculating a predator’s gaze.

“I thought I heard something fall.”

He takes another step, his hand reaching beneath his jacket. My blood turns to ice.

“Don’t move, Monroe,” Alexander says, his voice a low growl, a warning shot.

Monroe freezes, his gaze snapping to Alexander, his hand now gripping the butt of his gun. “What’s going on here, Alexander?” he asks, his voice suddenly sharp. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Away from you,” I say, my voice finding its strength, hardened by fear and fueled by a desperate need to protect Alexander.

But Alexander is already moving, his body a blur of motion despite his injuries. He slams his shoulder into Monroe, a raw, desperate strength propelling him. Monroe stumbles, crashing against the wall, the gun clattering to the floor with a metallic clang.

Monroe recovers quickly, his eyes blazing. He lunges at Alexander, a growl escaping his throat.

Monroe lands a blow on Alexander’s jaw, sending him reeling. Stumbling, Alexander gets to his feet.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Monroe snarls, his fist connecting with Alexander’s stomach, sending him doubling over.

His wound starts to bleed, shit.

The IV tubes attached to Alexander’s arm are a tangled mess. He’s fighting back, but every move is a struggle, every breath an effort.

“No, Alexander!” I scream.

“Get out of here!” he roars.

“I’m not leaving you.”

He pushes me towards the window, his hand on my back, urging me forward. His strength, his will, is a force I can’t resist. I turn and scramble towards the window, the coldness of the metal frame searing my skin. My fingers clinging to the metal rungs.

But I can’t leave him. Not now. I stop, my feet planted on the metal platform. The city lights blur below, a dizzying expanse.

I turn back, my gaze catching Monroe’s. His face is contorted in fury, a beast unleashed. I have to go back.

I crawl back in and move, a shadow in the room’s low light. My hand finds the gun I placed in my bag near the door, cold and heavy in my grip. It’s my only weapon, my last line of defense. I aim for Monroe’s head with the butt of the gun. I swallow hard, and my breath intensifies. He’s standing over Alexander breathing heavily, about to land another punch.

I strike, a swift, deliberate motion, the gun connecting with Monroe’s temple. He collapses to the floor, a crumpled figure. He’s unconscious.

Before I can realize what has happened, Alexander grabs my hand.

“Let’s go,” Alexander whispers as he struggles to his feet. He’s weak, his movements labored, but his eyes are burning with a fire I’ve never seen before.

“You’re bleeding!”

“It’s minor,” Alexander says, grabbing some pads on the way to the window.

I nod, my gaze locked on Monroe. The gun feels heavy in my hand. I won’t let him hurt Alexander. Not ever.

I don’t hesitate. I scramble out the window, the cold night air hitting my face, the metal rungs of the fire escape cold and gritty beneath my feet. Alexander follows me, his movements slower, hampered by his injury. Each step draws a groan from him. I can see his hand pressed against his chest and the bandage is a dark, wet stain.

We descend quickly, the metal stairs groaning beneath our weight. Below us, the hospital parking lot is dark, the occasional car is a gleaming island.

“Ava!” Monroe’s voice, laced with fury, echoes from the window above.

He’s woken up, shit. He is right above us, his footsteps heavy on the metal stairs.

“Faster, Alexander,” I urge him. “He’s coming!”

We reach the bottom of the fire escape and stumble into the dark of the alleyway. I risk a glance back. Monroe is halfway down, his gun drawn, his face contorted with rage.

We’re not going to make it. A cold sweat breaks out on my forehead.

“Isaac!” I scream, my voice echoing in the narrow alleyway. “Isaac, where are you?!”

Headlights flash, cutting through the darkness. Isaac’s SUV pulls into the alley, its engine idling.

“Get in!” Isaac shouts.

We scramble into the back seat, the leather cool against my skin. The doors slam shut behind us with a thud. Isaac throws the car into gear, the tires squealing as he speeds away; just as Monroe reaches the bottom of the fire escape, his gun aimed at us.

“Drive!” I shout, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

Isaac, his jaw clenched, doesn’t need to be told twice. He floors the accelerator, the car lurching forward, the alleyway a blur of brick and shadows.

Two shots ring out like a brutal duet. The car shudders, bullets slamming into its metal skin. I dive into the backseat, pulling Alexander down, his head nestled against my chest. He’s a wounded animal; his breaths are ragged against my skin. I hold him close, my body is working as a shield. A strangled gasp leaves my throat, but I don’t move. I won’t move.

“Where to?” Isaac asks, his gaze fixed on the road, his hands gripping the steering wheel.

“The train station,” Alexander says. ”I don”t think Cole is done with us. He”s got people in Russia, and they”ll be coming for us sooner or later. We need to find a way to get out of Port Haven.”

Isaac nods. He reaches into the glove compartment, pulling out a wad of cash and a phone. He hands them to me.

Alexander and Isaac were prepared for this.

“Leave the credit cards,” Alexander says, his voice strained. “They can trace them. If they have Monroe— the whole police department is compromised.”

Isaac nods, furrowing his brow. He pulls the SUV to a stop in front of the station. The night air smells like diesel; the only sound is the wail of a distant train whistle. I look out of the car window. The station is a ghost town, a far cry from its usual hustle and bustle. A few figures move in the shadows, their forms indistinct. A homeless guy sleeps on a bench, his ragged clothes blending with the night. A stray cat slinks across the platform.

They won’t expect us to leave town, especially not in Alexanders condition, this is perfect.

Isaac changes clothes with Alexander. The scene is almost comical. Isaac, in the oversized hospital gown stained crimson, looks like a lost child in someone else’s clothes. On the other hand, Alexander looks almost normal in the suit despite the dark circles under his eyes and the lines of tension etched around his mouth. I watch as Alexander struggles with his tie, his movements are slow. I grab the medical pads he took before leaving the hospital. I change the pad on his wound, my fingers nimble, quickly wrapping it up with the tape from the old pad. My movements are automatic, and I finish quickly.

“The girls–” I begin as Alexander finishes his tie.

“They’re safe with me. Katerina and Zara are helping. They’ll be okay,” Isaac says.

”Don’t let them out of your sight, Isaac. I think that Port Haven isn”t just a haven for criminals. It”s a chessboard for a much larger game.”

“I’ll keep things calm here,” Isaac say, and lays a hand on Alexander’s shoulder.

I hesitate for a moment, my hand on the door handle. “Thank you, Isaac,” I whisper, “For everything.”

He nods, his gaze meeting mine. Then, he turns away, his face hardening, his eyes scanning the street, ever vigilant.

We are out of the car, and Alexander exchanges a few words with Isaac, ending in a hug. The two of them are so different, yet so connected.

We start walking. Alexander leans heavily on me, his breathing shallow. I can almost feel the pain radiating from him, a wave of heat against my side.

“Where to?” I ask, my voice barely audible as I approach the automated ticket stand.

“Wherever you want,” he whispers, placing a cold kiss on my forehead. “As long as it’s west.”

“Why west?”

“I think we’ve had enough of the east, don’t you?” he says, his hand circling my waist, a possessive gesture sending me shivers of thrill.

The Veles Network, Russia, it’s all east, of course.

I chuckle, breathing, the tension in my jaw easing slightly. “Right.”

The machine spits out two tickets, a small victory in a world without certainty. We have about an hour to wait. I don’t think Monroe will come for us here. The train station is a ghost town at this hour, and the only movement is the occasional lone figure hurrying by. Still, I steer us to the far end of the platform, sheltered by a closed shop. Isaac is still in the car, I know he won’t leave until we are on the train. And I’m grateful for that.

“You think we can find somewhere with a bed,” I say, “and a pharmacy nearby?” I glance at his hip, the bandages sticking out underneath his shirt.

He chuckles a weak, painful sound. “Always practical, my Ava.” His gaze holds mine, his eyes dark and intense.

My Alexander.

We are free, for now, but the shadows of Port Haven will always haunt us. We are running, but we are not escaping. Yet, in this moment, we have each other. That, I know, is a truth that can never be taken away. A fragile anchor in a storm-tossed world.