Chapter 34 Petyr
PETYR
Misha looks like hell, but less so than before.
The last time I saw him, he was still half-dead. Wired up, pale as marble, his pulse barely noticeable. Now, at least, he’s upright in bed, a thin blanket pulled to his waist, and the faintest trace of color has made its way back in his face.
His doctor calls it progress. I call it being a lucky bastard.
When I walk into his room, Misha struggles up. “You didn’t have to come.” If he didn’t sound like a truck ran over his throat, I’d almost believe him.
“Don’t start,” I say. “You’d do the same for me.”
A ghost of a smile pulls at his mouth. “Maybe. If I liked you more.” His voice cracks halfway through, and he grimaces like the effort alone costs him.
I drag a chair closer to the bedside. “You sound like shit.”
“I feel worse.” Misha shifts against the pillows. His skin has that waxy sheen that means the fever still comes and goes. “That doctor you sent me said I’ll make a full recovery.”
“Doctors said the same about my brother,” I reply before I can stop myself. “But in your case, it looks like it’ll be true.”
He doesn’t call me out for my lack of tact. Just nods. “I’ve heard good things about Dimitri. He didn’t deserve the lot he got.”
“Neither did you.”
“I kind of went looking for it.” He gives me a sly smirk. “They told me doing business with you would be risky.”
“And you still went for it?”
“Are you kidding? It was the best advertisement you could get. Of course I went for it.”
I shake my head and fight the smile. Misha’s the one in a hospital gown, but somehow, he’s still got more balls than half my men combined.
My thoughts shift to Dimitri. He was supposed to be the one sitting here, not me. He’d been groomed for leadership since we were kids, taught to keep the empire running, to be untouchable.
But when he fell, everything changed.
He sunk into that coma for so long. There was no time to wait for miracles. The war with the Danilos didn’t stop just because my brother was lying in a hospital bed.
So I stepped in. Someone had to. To keep the Bratva running and to make those bastards pay.
Now, I wonder what he’d say about it. I’ve been wondering more and more. It’s part of the reason I haven’t gone to see him yet. If he were to look me in the eye and call me a traitor, a thief, I don’t know if I’d survive it.
Misha takes a shaky breath. “How reliable is that surgeon of yours?”
“Very.”
“She thinks that my recovery could take weeks. Maybe months. I can’t afford that.”
I lean back and cross my arms. “You can’t rush healing.”
“In our world?” He gives me a pointed look. “There’s no time for patience. Every day I’m stuck here, I’m falling behind.”
He’s right. I know it. Time is a luxury none of us have. The second you show weakness, someone starts sharpening their knife.
I study him. The hard angles softened by exhaustion, the stubbornness still burning under all that pain. “You’ll get back on your feet,” I tell him. “You always do, from what I hear.”
“Sounds like I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”
“You do.”
He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. “I just need a few days. Then I’ll be back on track.”
“Don’t be stupid,” I say. “You push too fast, you’ll end up back in that bed.”
He huffs out a breath that almost passes for a laugh. “Says the guy who’s walking around with a bullet wound in his shoulder.”
I can’t help the small smirk that flickers before it dies again. “Fair enough.”
The city hums faintly outside the window, muffled by glass. Misha’s apartment sits high enough that the noise can’t touch it—exactly how he likes it. Quiet. Controlled.
But I can tell it’s driving him insane.
Finally, he asks, “How’s your brother?”
I stare at the floor. “Still relearning to walk. He’s fighting.”
“That’s something.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “It’s something.”
Misha shifts again, his breath coming shallow. “You’ve been carrying all of it, haven’t you? Your business, the Bratva. This war with the Danilos.”
“Someone has to.”
“Petyr—” he starts.
But I cut him off. “Don’t. You know how this works. There’s no rest until it’s finished.”
Misha watches me for a long time, then nods. “Then let’s finish it.” He looks like he might pass out from just saying it, but the fire in his voice tells me he’s serious.
I stand. “Rest first. Then we talk business.”
“Fine,” he exhales. “I’ll get a clean bill of health. But you keep moving my guns.”
“Of course.” I fix my cufflinks. “It’s what I signed up for.”
I don’t say that this—the bloodshed, the pain, every goddamned setback we’re forced to power through—is also what I signed up for. Misha knows it. It’s what he signed up for, too.
I’m halfway to the door when Misha’s voice stops me. “Petyr.”
I turn back. He’s sitting up a little straighter, pale but focused.
“Before you go,” he says, “I need to say something.”
“You should rest.”
“I will. After this.”
He sounds serious. I stop in the doorway and listen.
“You saved my life.” He draws a slow breath. “I’m not the type to pretend that means nothing. I owe you.”
I shake my head. “You don’t owe me anything. You’d have done the same if it were me.”
“Of course I would have,” he says. “That’s not the point. You stepped up. That means something. It’s a debt, Petyr. And I always pay my debts.”
I sigh and rub a hand over my jaw. “If the chance ever comes up, maybe you’ll return the favor. Until then, forget it.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not how this works. You don’t get to decide whether I forget it. You pulled me out when I was gone. That doesn’t vanish just because you tell me it should.”
“Fine,” I say quietly. “But I’d rather see you live long enough to pay it back than talk about it now.”
“It’s not about payback. It’s about honor. And you know that better than anyone.”
I do. Men like us don’t get to walk away from the things that define us. Loyalty, duty, debt—they’re all the same chain by a different name.
Before I can say anything more, the door bursts open.
One of my bodyguards stands there. “Boss.” He’s out of breath, which tells me something must be wrong.
I turn sharply. “What?”
“It’s your wife.” His tone is clipped, urgent. “She’s in labor. Luka’s taking her to the hospital now.”
For a split second, the words don’t register.
Then the floor seems to turn to liquid under me.
Sima’s in labor.
She’s going to give birth.
Our child is coming.
Misha’s eyes meet mine. “Go,” he says. “Be with her.”
I don’t need to be told twice.