Chapter 21
Pyotr
I’m out of bed before I’m fully awake, grabbing the gun from the nightstand and moving down the hallway with Daria two steps behind me.
But when I reach Kira’s doorway, there’s no intruder. Just a five-year-old girl thrashing in her dinosaur sheets, crying for her mother.
Daria shoves her way past me and gathers Kira into her arms. The moment her hand touches her daughter’s forehead, she goes pale.
“She’s burning up.”
I holster the gun and cross to the bed. Kira’s face is flushed, and her hair is plastered to her forehead with sweat. When I press the back of my hand to her cheek, the heat radiating off her skin makes me frown.
“I need to find the thermometer.” Daria’s voice is climbing toward panic. “She was fine at dinner. She was fine when she went to bed. How is she—”
“Daria.” I catch her arm and force her to look at me. “Thermometer. Where?”
“Bathroom cabinet. Top shelf.”
I retrieve it and return to find Daria rocking Kira, whispering reassurances that sound more like prayers. The thermometer beeps after thirty seconds.
“39.2,” I read the display. “High, but not critical. Do you have children’s Tylenol?”
“In the kitchen. The cabinet above the stove.” She looks up at me with wild eyes. “We need to take her to a hospital.”
“No.”
“Pyotr, she’s sick. She needs—”
“Hospital records get flagged. Bogdan will show up to help his case and make things worse.” I crouch in front of her and add, “I know a doctor. Someone who works with your family quite a bit. I think he’s in town for a conference. He’ll come here and examine her, so there won’t be any paperwork.”
“But if someone sees him—”
“I know it’s a risk, but Kira needs help, and I’m not going to let anything happen to her, even if it means Bogdan’s people spot the doctor coming in. He can’t get into the apartment like he could a hospital room.”
She stares at me with fear warring with trust on her face. Then, she nods.
I make the call from the hallway. Dr. Orlov answers on the fourth ring, his voice thick with sleep.
“This had better be important.”
“I need you at an address in St. Petersburg. Child with a high fever. No hospital. No records.”
A pause. “Kozlov business?”
“Close enough.”
He sighs. “Give me the address. I’ll be there in forty minutes.”
I return to Kira’s room with the Tylenol and a glass of water. Daria coaxes her daughter into swallowing the medicine, but Kira keeps crying, reaching for me with one small hand.
“Pyotr,” she whimpers. “Stay.”
Something constricts in my chest, and I swallow hard before replying, “I’m not going anywhere, malyshka.”
Dr. Orlov arrives at 3:32 a.m. to examine Kira like someone who’s spent decades treating children. Daria hovers by the doorway with her arms wrapped around herself.
“Viral infection,” he announces after checking her throat and ears.
“Common at this age. The fever should break within twenty-four to forty-eight hours with rest and fluids.” He pulls a prescription pad from his bag.
“I’ll leave you with antibiotics in case it develops into something bacterial, but for now, keep her hydrated and comfortable. ”
“That’s it?” Daria asks. “She’ll be okay?”
He smiles reassuringly. “Children are resilient. She’ll bounce back faster than you expect.”
I walk him to the door while Daria stays with Kira.
“Thank you,” I tell him. “I know this was a risk.”
“For a Kozlov?” He shrugs into his coat. “I’ve taken bigger risks. This was a refreshingly normal visit. Take care of that little girl.”
“I intend to.”
I watch him disappear down the stairwell, then inspect the street from the window. One of Bogdan’s watchers is standing near the corner with his phone to his ear. He’s looking right at the building entrance.
He saw the doctor leave, at the very least.
I close the curtain and push the thought aside. Kira needed help. We’ll deal with the rest when it comes.
The next few hours pass in a haze of cool cloths, temperature checks, and Kira’s small, fevered whimpers.
I send Daria to sleep around 7 a.m., promising to wake her if anything changes. She argues, but exhaustion wins, and she curls up on the couch in the living room where she can hear if Kira calls for her.
I glance toward the living room. Daria’s curled up on the couch. Something in my chest pulls tight.
I settle into the chair beside Kira’s bed and keep watch.
At some point, she reaches for my hand in the dark. Her fingers are so small against my palm, and her grip is weak but insistent.
“Don’t leave,” she mumbles, half-asleep. “Promise you won’t leave.”
“I promise.”
“Pinky promise?”
I hook my little finger around hers. “Pinky promise.”
She drifts back into restless sleep, and I sit there holding her hand, watching the rise and fall of her chest beneath the dinosaur sheets.
Around 8 a.m., her fever spikes again. I change out the cool cloth on her forehead and check her temperature. 39.8. Higher, but still manageable. The medicine should kick in soon.
She stirs and blinks up at me with glassy eyes. “Pyotr?”
“I’m here.”
“Will you tell me a story? Mama always tells stories when I’m sick.”
“I’m not very good at stories.”
“Please?” She tugs weakly on my sleeve. “Tell me about when you were little. Did you have a dog? I want a dog, but Mama says maybe when I’m bigger.”
After a few minutes, I find myself talking about Uncle Vasily’s hunting dogs and the summers in the village. Kira listens with heavy-lidded eyes, occasionally asking questions that don’t quite make sense through her fever fog.
“Did the dogs have names?” she asks.
“Hunter and Misha.”
“Those are funny names for dogs,” she says with a giggle. “I would name my dog Princess Sparkle.”
“That’s a terrible name for a dog.”
“It’s the best name.” She yawns and snuggles deeper into her pillow. “When I get better, will you help me convince Mama?”
“We’ll see.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then, so softly I almost miss it, she whispers, “I wish you were my papa.”
The words punch through me like a bullet.
“Kira…”
But she’s already asleep, with her breathing evening out and her hold on my hand going slack.
I sit there frozen as what she said settles over me. This isn’t my daughter, or even my family. I’m here on assignment, and in a few days, this will be over one way or another.
But Kira feels like mine. They both do.
Her fever finally breaks. I check her temperature and find it down to 37.5. Close enough to normal. The color is returning to her cheeks, and her sleep has shifted from restless to peaceful.
I extract myself carefully and leave Kira sleeping. The fire escape door creaks as I slip outside, and the cold air slaps my face.
I grab the railing and stare out at the city.
I don’t hear Daria approach until she’s beside me, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders.
“Her fever broke,” I tell her without turning around.
“I know. I checked on her.” She cocks her head and asks, “What’s wrong?”
I don’t know how to explain the weight pressing down on my chest, or the memories clawing their way up from the grave I dug for them.
She doesn’t push. She just stands beside me, watching the city, waiting.
“There was a girl,” I finally tell her. “In Syria. She was eight years old. Her name was Lana.”
Daria doesn’t speak, so I continue.
“Her father was a diplomat. Our team was sent to extract the family after their compound was overrun. We got the mother out first, but I got separated from the group while I was carrying Lana.”
The memories come flooding back. The bombed buildings. The distant crack of gunfire. Lana’s arms wrapped around my neck with her face buried against my shoulder because I told her not to look.
“I kept her alive for three days. We rationed water and hid in rubble. I told her stories to keep her calm. I promised her that she’d see her father again.”
“What happened?”
“On the final push to extraction, a sniper took a shot at me.” I swallow hard. “The bullet went through her chest instead. She was… looking up at me when it happened, asking if we were almost there.”
Daria makes a small sound beside me.
“I carried her body six kilometers to the helicopter, where I handed her to a father who’d trusted me to bring his daughter home safe.” I squeeze the railing tighter. “She had a smile so much like Kira’s. Same way of asking for stories when she was scared.”
“Pyotr—”
“Kira asked me to stay forever.” I stop and tell myself to breathe. “Lana asked me the same thing. The night before we made the final push, she said she wished I could come live with her family when this was all over.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her we’d see.” A bitter laugh escapes me. “That was the last conversation we had before she died in my arms.”
Daria doesn’t tell me it wasn’t my fault or that I did everything I could. She knows that’s not what I need. She just reaches over and takes my hand, threading her fingers through mine.
She leans into me and rests her head against my shoulder. The weight of it anchors me to the present.
“You saved Kira tonight,” she tells me. “You called the doctor. You stayed with her. You kept her safe.”
“It's not the same.”
“No. But it matters.” She lifts her head and looks at me. “You matter. To both of us.”
I cup her face with my free hand and drag my thumb along the dark circle under her eye. She hasn't slept. Neither have I. We’re both running on fumes and fear and something neither of us has named yet.
“When this is over,” I say, “I’m going to make sure Bogdan can never touch you again.”
“Is that a promise?”
“Yes.”
We stand there in silence as the sun climbs higher in the sky, marking another day.
Somewhere in the past three weeks, this stopped being an assignment. Daria isn’t a subject to investigate, and Kira isn’t collateral to protect.
They’re my family. And I’ll burn down the world before I let anyone take them from me.
Just as I have that thought, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and see a message from an unknown number, and my blood turns to ice.
How’s Kira’s fever?
Fucking Bogdan Lebedev.