Chapter 25
LUKA
The hospital emergency room smells. I hate hospitals—too many memories of cleaning up after jobs gone wrong. There have been too many times I watched good men die on tables just like these.
"I'm fine, Luka," she insists for the third time, her hand pressed against my good shoulder as a nurse bustles around us with paperwork. "You're the one who's bleeding."
The bullet wound throbs like hell, but it's superficial. What's eating at me is the need to know for certain that our child survived tonight's chaos. She says she’s fine, but the stress can’t be good for her or the baby.
I need a doctor to tell me that everything is okay before I can breathe normally again.
"Humor me," I tell her, catching the eye of a passing resident. "Doctor. Now."
The young man takes one look at me in my blood-stained clothes and nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to comply.
"Sir, if you could just fill out these forms—"
"My woman needs to be examined." The words come out as a growl. Blood drips from my saturated sleeve onto his pristine paperwork, and I see him track its path with widening eyes.
"I... I need to follow protocol. Insurance information, medical history—"
I lean forward, letting him see exactly who he's dealing with.
"Dr. Morrison. Chief of staff. Tell him Luka Markovic is here, and if my pregnant woman doesn't have an obstetrician in the next five minutes, I'll be discussing his hospital's emergency response times with the mayor at tomorrow's charity dinner. "
The resident goes pale. Everyone knows the mayor's biggest campaign donor has a Russian accent and a reputation for getting what he wants.
"I'll... I'll get Dr. Morrison immediately."
"You do that." I sink into the nearest chair, fighting off the gray creeping into my vision. "And get someone to stop this bleeding while you're at it. I'm getting blood on your expensive floors."
"Luka—" Cindy protests.
"No arguments." I take her hand, threading our fingers together. "Please. For me."
Something in my tone must reach her because she nods, squeezing my fingers in understanding. I’m pretty sure that’s the only time I’ve used the word please.
Twenty minutes later, we're both on hospital beds in a private room. Turns out being a scary Russian mobster is exactly the motivation the emergency department staff needed.
Cindy lies on her side facing me, her hand stretched across the narrow space between our beds to maintain contact while a nurse cleans my shoulder. The nurse is nervous. She won’t even look me in the eyes.
Good.
"This might sting," the nurse warns, but her hands are shaking as she irrigates the wound.
The saline hits like acid, and I have to lock my jaw to keep from cursing. Through and through is good—no bullet to dig out—but the exit wound is ragged. Probably caught the edge of my shoulder blade on the way through.
"You need surgery," she says quietly. "There could be bone fragments, and this bleeding—"
"Just pack it and stitch what you can."
"Sir, I really must insist—"
I turn my head to look at her directly. "Stitch it."
She swallows hard and reaches for the suture kit.
I feel the needle pierce already screaming flesh, feel the drag of thread through meat.
No lidocaine—we don't have time for numbing to take effect.
I focus on Cindy's voice from the next bed, using it as an anchor while the nurse does her best with hands that won't quite steady.
"Fourteen stitches," she murmurs when she's done, taping gauze over her work. "You need antibiotics, proper wound care, and—"
"Write it down," I tell her. "All of it. I'll follow up with my own doctor."
We both know I mean someone who won't ask questions about gunshot wounds or file mandatory reports.
The door opens, and a middle-aged woman in scrubs enters, her expression professional but cautious. Dr. Sarah Frost, according to her badge. Everything about her body language suggests she's been briefed on exactly who she's dealing with.
"Mrs. Markovic?" she asks. I see Cindy's slight flinch at the assumption. We haven't corrected anyone tonight about our marital status—it's easier to let them believe what they want than explain our complicated situation.
"Just some routine checks," Dr. Frost continues, pulling on latex gloves. "I understand you've had a stressful evening."
Stressful. Right. Like nearly being burned alive by her psychotic siblings qualifies as mere stress.
"I'm fine," Cindy repeats, but her voice lacks conviction now. "I just want to make sure the baby is okay."
"Of course. Let's start with listening to the heartbeat."
Dr. Frost produces a small handheld device, squirting gel onto Cindy's exposed abdomen before placing the probe against her skin. For a moment, there's nothing but static. My chest tightens with a fear I don't want to acknowledge.
Then we hear it.
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.
Fast, strong, steady. The sound of life. The needle in my shoulder stops registering as pain, replaced by something so overwhelming it takes my breath away.
Our baby. Our child. Alive.
"Strong heartbeat," Dr. Frost confirms, a genuine smile replacing her earlier nervousness. "Sounds absolutely perfect."
I watch Cindy's face as tears streak down her cheeks. The love on her face makes something crack open in my chest. It’s a strange sensation.
I love Leo. I’ll protect him with my life. This feeling I have is ten times stronger than that.
Holy shit.
I love her.
"We could do an ultrasound," Dr. Frost offers nervously as she glances between us. "If you would like to see the baby."
I can tell she's trying to please me, probably terrified of what might happen if she disappoints the man who walked into her hospital covered in blood and making demands.
The fear radiating from her should bother me, but right now I don't care about anything except seeing proof of what we've created together.
"Yes," I say immediately. "Absolutely yes."
Dr. Frost nods quickly and steps out to arrange for the equipment. Cindy catches my eye across the space between our beds.
"She's obviously scared of you,” she chides. “The other doctor said I would have an ultrasound around twenty weeks.
I shrug. Fear is a tool, and if it gets us better care and faster service, then I'm not going to apologize for it.
“I want it now,” I reply.
She rolls her eyes.
The ultrasound machine arrives ten minutes later, wheeled in by a technician who seems intent on minding their own business. Dr. Frost takes over the controls, adjusting settings and explaining what we're about to see.
"There," Dr. Frost says, pointing to what looks like a grainy blob in a sea of black and white static. "There's your baby."
I study the image, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing. It looks like nothing to me, just patterns of light and shadow that could be anything. But Cindy gasps, her hand flying to her mouth as her eyes fill with fresh tears.
"Oh my God," she whispers. "That's really... that's really our baby."
"Measuring perfectly for twelve weeks," Dr. Frost confirms, moving the probe to capture different angles. "Everything looks absolutely normal."
I'll take her word for it.
"You're very lucky to have such a caring husband," Dr. Frost tells her, finally relaxing enough to sound conversational instead of terrified.
Cindy opens her mouth—probably to correct the assumption—but then she catches my eye. I see the moment she makes her decision.
"Thank you," she says simply. "I know I am."
An hour later, we're finally discharged with a folder full of care instructions. Grigori is waiting in the parking garage with the SUV. The hospital had cut my shirt off. Cindy insisted I be given something to wear. So, I’m wearing a green scrub top.
It’s fucking humiliating.
"Boss," he says, opening the rear door for us. "Compound's still secure. Leo's asking for both of you."
The drive back to the compound passes in relative silence. Cindy rests her head on my good shoulder while she studies the ultrasound photos like they're precious artifacts.
The compound is in full lockdown when we arrive. Extra guards are posted, and every entrance is monitored. It looks like a fortress, which is exactly what I need it to be while Yuri Kozlov is still breathing and planning his next move.
"Get Leo," I tell Cindy as we enter the main house. "I'm sure he's worried sick."
She nods and heads toward the safe room, where Tony has been keeping him entertained with video games and junk food. I watch her go.
"Grigori," I call out once she's out of earshot. "My office. Now."
He follows me down the hall, his shoulders already set in resignation. He knows what's coming, knows that someone has to answer for tonight's clusterfuck.
I close the door behind us and turn to face the man who's supposed to be my most trusted lieutenant. "Talk."
"Boss, I—"
"You lost her." My voice is deadly quiet. "The one job I gave you, the one thing that mattered more than anything else, and you fucking lost her."
"Yes, sir. I—
"Excuses." I step closer, letting him feel the weight of my displeasure. "She was taken, tortured, and nearly killed because you weren't good enough at your job."
Grigori's jaw works, but he doesn't offer excuses. Good. At least he's smart enough to know when he's fucked up.
"It will never happen again," he says finally.
"No," I agree. "It won't. Because if you ever let harm come to her again, if you ever fail to protect what's mine, I will personally feed you to the wolves. Are we clear?"
"Crystal clear, boss."
"Good. She gets a shadow from now on. Twenty-four-seven coverage when I'm not with her.”
“Yes, sir.”
"What about Kozlov?" Grigori asks.
"What about him?"
"He's going to retaliate. Tonight was a declaration of war."
"Let him come," I say, settling behind my desk. "We've got the defensive advantage, better intel, and superior motivation. He wants money and respect. I'm fighting for my family."
Grigori nods, understanding the distinction. Money and respect are replaceable. Family is not.
"Anything else?" I ask.
"The cleanup at the warehouse is done. No trace evidence, no witnesses. As far as the authorities are concerned, it was an electrical fire that got out of hand."
"And the bodies?"
"Casualties of the fire."
Good man.
I dismiss him with a wave and lean back in my chair, finally allowing myself to process the events of the night. Drew and Anna are dead.
But Yuri Kozlov is still out there. He's coming for us, and when he does, it won't be subtle or merciful.
His mistake. And it's going to be the last one he ever makes.
I stand feeling the tug of stitches in my shoulder. Before I go to Leo, I need to clean up. I will not let him feel fear. I know I can’t prevent it forever, but I will for as long as I can.
An hour later, I find Leo and Cindy in the kitchen.
She’s making him cookies.
The woman just went through hell, but she’s acting like she just returned from the spa. I can still smell the faint odor of gasoline on her. I realize my selfish ass showered while she took care of my son.
I slide up behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist and nuzzling her neck. “Go shower.”
“Do you know how to bake cookies?”
“No.”
“Then it can wait another ten minutes.”
I consider scolding her for defying me, but I know that will only start one of our arguments. I like arguing with her. It usually ends with me buried inside her.
But tonight, it’s about taking care of Leo. He needs to feel like everything is okay.
Because sadly, I have a feeling the coming days will be anything but okay.