34. A Prayer to God, a Promise to the Devil
Chapter thirty-four
A Prayer to God, a Promise to the Devil
Kazimir
The hospital’s sterile environment was jarring, with its bright white walls and floors reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights.
Amidst the constant beeping and buzzing of medical equipment, I stood in the center of a cold, clinical hallway.
The smell of antiseptics hung heavily in the space.
All around, the air vibrated with urgency.
Doctors, nurses, and others in scrubs rushed by in a blur with their faces set in grim determination. A relentless march of healing and hope, pain and perseverance. Many issued orders in sharp, clipped tones.
Surely, we were keeping the hospital staff busy. Over eighty of our people were here. Some Harlem Crew, others Brotherhood.
Meanwhile, my gaze remained fixed on the large window in front of me that offered a glimpse into Maxwell’s room in the ICU.
A constant flow of professionals darted in and out of his room, their hands moving deftly as they adjusted IV lines, reviewed charts, or offered quick words to my mouse.
The air-conditioned breeze hit my bare, wounded skin.
On my left, a nurse worked meticulously to stitch a deep gash in my side where a bullet had lodged itself before being expertly removed.
She cleared her throat and looked up at me. “Please lift your arm, sir.”
I raised it.
My men guarded several feet away on both sides with their guns out, ready to shoot any cartel members attempting to finish what they started.
Besides the nurse stitching me up, another moved around to my right arm, cleaning cuts and abrasions with a gentle yet firm touch. The sting of antiseptic on my raw wounds forced me to grit my teeth.
The pain wasn’t just a single note; it was an orchestra of sharp stabs, dull throbs, and searing burns that played across my body, each wound a different instrument of torment.
But it all paled in comparison to the gut-wrenching sight of Emily’s anguish.
My heart constricted in my chest, aching at her suffering.
Mysh. . .
In Maxwell’s room, her silhouette was a study in despair, shoulders slumped and body quivering with sobs that even the thick glass couldn’t completely muffle.
I returned my focus to Maxwell, lying unconscious on the hospital bed.
My gaze roved over his bandaged chest, the IV lines snaking in and out of his skin, the heart monitor casting an eerie glow on his face.
Off to his side, he had a maze of wires and tubes connecting his body to other machines that beeped and whirred in a constant, grim rhythm.
It was the soundtrack to our current nightmare.
No sign of movement came from him, just the mechanical rise and fall of his chest.
I thought about the bullets that had torn through him, and this heavy weight pressed down on my sanity.
The one that hit his chest had been the most terrifying, given the proximity to his heart and other organs. His doctor was concerned about pneumothorax—a condition that could collapse his lungs.
One bullet hit Maxwell’s arm. Another pierced his thigh.
Thankfully, both went straight through.
No foreign objects were left inside, but the potential damage to muscles, bones, and blood vessels could not be underestimated.
The doctor planned to give us a more thorough report tomorrow.
Then, there was the bullet that struck his abdomen. The thought of it possibly damaging his liver or spleen was enough to send shivers down my spine.
The final bullet had been lodged in his shoulder. Fortunately, the dense networks of nerves and blood vessels were unharmed.
They shot you five times. That could not have been a coincidence. Did they know who you were?
The fact that Maxwell still hadn’t woken up yet could be due to the anesthesia, the shock his body was enduring, or the medications meant to keep him sedated and pain-free.
Regardless, the nurses had urged my mouse to be patient, explaining that waking up after such traumatic injuries and surgeries would take time and that they wanted to ensure he was stable and not in pain when he finally did awaken.
You better get up, Maxwell. My mouse will not be okay if you do not.
I moved my gaze back to the dim outline of my mouse.
A deep sense of helplessness settled over me.
Please, God.
Maxwell had to pull through. It would be the only way my mouse would get to piece back together the fragments of the life she had that bullets had shattered.
She wiped away tears with her hands and watched him some more, whispering something.
Was she talking to God like me?
Would both of our prayers be heard?
In that bathroom, Emily had faced down masked men with unwavering courage, shooting and stabbing, slamming and kicking.
It was hard to pay attention to my own battle. I’d been so in awe of her.
But now she sat there, crumbling under the weight of Maxwell’s fight for life.
I had warred with many adversaries, but this helplessness in this moment was a foe that I had no weapon against.
Wake up, Maxwell.
Why did humanity have to be so fragile?
Especially in my life—one entangled in the web of crime.
Littered with danger.
Where loyalty was often paid in blood, and betrayals settled with bullets.
Every day precariously balanced on the edge of a knife, with death—the Devil’s assistant—a constant, uninvited companion lurking in the shadows.
God. . .we have lost too many. Please. . .spare us this pain.
Already, the echoes of my past decisions haunted my conscience.
Pavel’s ghostly image flashed through my mind.
No. Maxwell cannot die. The idiot would definitely enjoy spooking me for the rest of my life.
I gave up on praying to God, and focused on my old friend.
Death. . .
He was always waiting, patient and indiscriminate. And he didn’t care about your plans, your dreams, or your fears.
He was the one true equalizer.
Death, Maxwell is not for you. Not now. You must wait.
The nurse on my right applied a pressure bandage to my side and spoke, “Almost finished, sir.”
I grunted and put my gaze on my mouse.
She now clutched Maxwell’s hand tightly in hers.
Earlier, I had to yell at Emily to allow her own wounds to be tended by the staff. She had reluctantly agreed, but made the nurses treat her in Maxwell’s room.
The whole time her gaze never left his still form as the medical team worked to assess and treat her injuries. They cleaned her abrasions with meticulous care, dressed her lacerations, and ensured no internal injuries were overlooked.
I tried another option.
Devil, if you spare Maxwell. . .I promise to give you many more souls this year.
I thought of the cartels.
I swear your hellish empire will rise. Bodies will pile in your name.
My jaw clenched.
Call off your assistant.
“There we go, sir.” The nurse finished bandaging my side and sighed. “Would you like something for the pain?”
“No.”
Any dulling of the senses might take me away from this reality.
I couldn’t afford to drift.
I needed to be present for Emily.
For my sons.
What will we say to Paolo, when he does not see Uncle Maxwell for breakfast in the morning?
I gritted my teeth to hold in the sadness rising within my core.
The nurses gave me a nod and left.
My new phone vibrated in my pocket.
I pulled the device out and placed it next to my ear. “Yes?”
“Kazimir.” Misha’s voice came through, strained and unlike his usual firm tone. It was laced with an unmistakable tremor, the kind that spoke of tears held back by sheer fucking will.
That told me that this would be a difficult call with my cousin.
Swallowing hard, I closed my eyes and kept my words steady. “Maxwell is out of surgery.”
“Has he woken up?”
“Not yet.”
“Ava and I are on the plane now. We take off as soon as the damned pilot finishes his checklist. In fact, if he takes any longer. . .”
Ava’s soothing voice sounded in the background as if she were calming him down. I couldn’t make out what she was saying, but I did hear him loudly exhale.
Whatever she had said, it had helped.
Misha sighed again. “Three planes already left full of men and weapons.”
“Good.”
“I sent the final information King David wanted for his hunt in Moscow. They should be done soon, and on their way to you.”
I nodded and rubbed my closed eyes. “I talked to David. I expect him here in a few days.”
“You do not sound surprised that I am coming.”
“With Maxwell’s condition, I assumed you would be.”
“But did you assume how much Tisha would fuck this up—”
“He is new to this—”
“They harmed the mother of my child!”
“Valentina is fine—”
“My homey. . .”
His what?
I opened my eyes, unsure of where he was about to go with those words.
“My brother . . .is in a coma—”
“He is not in a coma. . .at least. . .the doctor believes he will wake soon.”
“Kazimir. . .”
“Yes, Misha.”
“I need you to listen to me.”
I let out a long breath, knowing that I wasn’t going to like his next words.
“Put Tisha on a plane, send him to somewhere remote and very, very fucking far away, and do not tell me where—”
“Tisha will remain by my side—”
“He will not!”
I began rubbing the side of my head.
Ava’s soft voice sounded in the background again.
I wished I could talk to her privately.
Please get him calm. We will have enough hot heads in New Orleans. We do not need anymore.
Misha cleared his throat. “Put Tisha and his men on a plane to anywhere that is far and very—”
“We need him and his men—”
“Oh really?” This deadly silence hit the line and then Misha growled, “Understood, Kazimir.”
I raised one eyebrow. “Understood?”
“When I see him, I will kill him.”
I frowned.
“It is what I want to do anyway. This gives me permission—”
“We will not fight with each other, when we are already surrounded by many—”
“I see Tisha’s face, and he is dead, so make your move, Lion.”
Dear God. His arrival will trigger a shit show. Hurry here, David.
“Tell me this, Misha.” I leaned my head to the side. “Are you now the Lion, and I the Mosquito?”
Misha’s pause was palpable, a moment stretched thin over miles and miles of tension. When he finally spoke, his tone had shifted to cold. “Am I now the Lion? No.”
I relaxed.
“Am I the Mosquito? Not this time.”
I blinked, wondering if he was high.
“Kazimir.” A deadly edge rode his words. “I am the Nightmare.”
Oh God.
“I am the prophecy of our enemies’ destruction. I am the cold tap of their caskets as they close.”
I continued to rub my head.
“When I arrive, do not greet me, do not discuss the weather or ask about my trip, I only want to discuss strategies of bringing death to those who shot Maxwell. I want all paths of war.”
A chill ran down my spine, and I welcomed it.
“Good, Misha.” I lowered my hand and gazed back at my mouse. “Because after what happened today, there is no other option, but war.”
“I am glad you understand. Now for the next item.”
“Which is?”
“Ufuoma is on her way too.”
I sneered. “Why the fuck did you tell her about Maxwell—”
“She already had people watching him. Apparently, that was how many of the cartel members in the back of the club got shot. It was also her people’s car that took Maxwell to the hospital.”
Black Axe is in New Orleans. Why didn’t Tisha or Valentina know this?
I shook my head.
David would have known. I messed up. Never will I allow David to not be at my side again.
“Kazimir, will Ufuoma’s presence be a problem for your mouse?”
“She does not know what happened in Italy.”
“Ufuoma is bringing an army of Black Axe.”
I tightened my grip on the phone. “Anything else, cousin?”
“Hide Tisha.”
The line went dead.
I placed the phone in my pocket, for some reason it felt like a grenade sitting next to my leg, ready to detonate at any minute.
The air seemed colder too, the hospital’s sterile light harsher.
What will occur in these next days? How will I keep my kids. . .my fiancé. . .safe?
The Cartel’s relentless assault had pushed us to our limits, and our escape through the club’s bathroom window now seemed like a fevered dream.
But the grim reality of our situation was all too clear in the quiet of this hospital.
The Cartels had wanted to send a message, and in doing so, they had torn through the fabric of our lives with a brutality that left scars on the soul.
Maxwell fought for each breath. Emily’s pain was a silent scream against the injustice of it all. My fists clenched at my sides, a vow forming in the tightness of my jaw.
This was not the end.
The Cartel would pay for every tear, for every drop of blood shed.
But first, we had to survive this night, this moment.
Footsteps echoed from down the hall.
Now what?
I looked that way.
Valentina and Tisha moved cautiously down the corridor.
Bandages wrapped tightly around their wounds.
Dried blood stained Valentina’s clothes.
Although Tisha appeared visibly weakened from his injuries, he kept his pace with Valentina, and his jaw was set in a bleak line of pain.
The closer they got, the more I noticed that Tisha’s makeshift bandage around his torso was soaked through in places.
Seeing them appear like this, battered yet defiant, ached something deep in my chest.
I pushed past those emotions and fully turned their way.
Valentina and Tisha stopped in front of me. Tisha’s face wore a mask of grim resolve. Valentina’s eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, probably from crying.
The door to Maxwell’s room creaked open.
I snapped my view that way.
Emily emerged from the room and walked towards us, holding a gun at her side.
Where did she get that gun, and when? All this time, she had a gun in there?
I eyed her. “ Mysh? ”
She didn’t look my way.
Instead, her gaze slid over Valentina and Tisha.
The air between us charged.
Emily’s silence was louder than any words she could have uttered. Her fury was not shouted but radiated from her small frame like heat from a fire.
It was in the tension of her shoulders, the tightness of her jaw, and the hard set of her eyes. Even the way she held the gun at her side spoke volumes like it was an extension of her rage.
Lunita or my mouse?
I studied her, noting every detail—the slight tremor of her clenched fists, the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the barely controlled anger simmering in her gaze.
It is still my mouse. . .for now. . .
Emily moved away from the doorway with a deliberate, menacing grace. She was no longer the Mouse. Now she was a predator closing the distance on its prey.
And Misha thinks he will be the Nightmare in New Orleans. Stand in line, cousin.
She stopped in front of Tisha and Valentina.
I walked over and got to her side.
Emily’s gaze settled on Tisha.
His stance faltered slightly under the intensity of her stare.
Then, Emily sneered. “Tell me everything.”