Chapter 25
Alyona
The headline catches my eye mid-step; the words sliding across the mounted television in the staff lounge at The Lennox like a blade.
Incident at Baranov Hangar Outside Savannah. Multiple Injuries Reported.
I stop so abruptly that one of the receptionists nearly runs into me.
The room seems to tilt, my pulse roaring in my ears as the anchor’s voice continues on in calm, measured tones that are at odds with the images on the screen.
Grainy footage of lights, police tape, the blurred outline of black vehicles that tell me this isn’t an accident, despite the anchor reporting, “—told that an issue with fuselage may have resulted in several men hurt and possible loss of life.”
My chest tightens.
Brook is suddenly there, her hand warm and firm on my arm, her sharp eyes already assessing my face. “Aly,” she says quietly, not asking. “You should go.”
I don’t argue or even thank her. I nod once, reach for my phone, and walk away. My movements are stiff and mechanical, like if I stop, I might actually feel this. The staff parts without comment, someone pressing my bag into my hands, another opening the door before I reach it.
Outside, the driver straightens when he sees me, tosses his cigarette aside, a question forming on his lips.
“Take me to the hospital,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Now.”
He hesitates for half a second, protocol warring with instinct, and I meet his eyes. “Please.”
Something shifts. He nods once and opens the door.
As the car pulls away, I realize with a strange clarity that this is only the second time I’ve used my position like this; not as a shield, but as if it’s truly mine. As if I’m Kazimir Baranov’s and can command his empire at my whim.
The city blurs past the window, and all I can think is that if Kazimir is hurt, or if I get there too late, I will never forgive myself for every moment I pretended this wasn’t real.
Nika’s text comes through when we’re halfway across the city, the car cutting through traffic with a single-minded urgency that mirrors my pulse.
Bringing him home. He’s alive. Badly hurt.
I read it three times, each word landing harder than the last.
“What do you mean, home?” I mutter aloud, my hands curling into fists in my lap.
The driver glances at me in the rearview mirror, his expression carefully neutral, and presses the accelerator a little harder.
He takes a sharp corner, course-correcting without me asking.
Thankfully, he doesn’t say, Silly girl, the leader of the Bratva wouldn’t dare step foot in a hospital.
The building is thin, concrete giving way to trees and long stretches of road that feel suddenly endless.
Anger burns through the fear, hot and unmanageable. Of course Kazimir would refuse a hospital. Of course he would decide that bleeding out on his own table is preferable to letting strangers see him weak. The arrogance of it makes my chest ache.
When the house finally appears, looming and familiar, I don’t wait for the car to fully stop before I’m opening the door. With Kazimir and me out for the evening, the lights are dim—except for one stretch of three windows. Shadows hurry back and forth behind them.
He’s there! He’s here, and I can feel him, and I’m scared.
I’m halfway up the steps when I hear my father’s voice.
“Alyona.”
Liev stands just inside the entryway, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up, his face drawn in a way that makes him look older than I’ve ever seen him. Relief flickers across his expression when he sees me, followed quickly by concern. A smear of blood near his belt makes my breath catch.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says gently, like he’s trying to soothe a wild animal. “He’s being taken care of.”
“I know,” I snap, pushing past him. “I want to see him.”
His hand closes around my wrist, not hard, but firm enough to stop me. “He doesn’t need—”
“Don’t,” I cut in, whirling on him. “Do not tell me what he needs right now.”
He blinks, clearly startled by the force of my reaction. We stand there, locked in place, the house around us humming with quiet, purposeful movement. Somewhere deeper inside, I hear low voices, the clink of metal, the murmur of instructions.
“This isn’t about you and me,” Liev says carefully. “This is about keeping things calm.”
I laugh, sharp and humorless. “Calm left the building the moment he decided to take on a cartel himself.”
Something shifts in his face at that, a crack in the careful composure. “That’s what happened, isn’t it?” I ask. “Was Hinto at that hangar? Did Kazimir go after him to end this?”
My heart aches with the possibility. If Kaz were successful, this really could be the end of this facade we’ve held up. The one that feels too real, too intimate.
My father studies me, really looks at me, and whatever he sees there makes him go quiet. His grip loosens.
“You’re worried about him,” he says slowly.
“Yes,” I say, the word tearing out of me with a sharp exhale. It can’t end, not yet. I haven’t told him— “I am.”
For a long moment, he says nothing. Then he steps aside. “He’s in the dining room.”
Leaving him behind, I march down the hallway, my steps echoing against the stone floor, every step fueled by a volatile mix of fear and fury. The smell hits me first when I reach the room, antiseptic layered over iron.
Kazimir is laid out on the long dining table, shirt gone, skin pale beneath the harsh lights. The tattoos that cross his broad chest, run down his arms, and scatter across his knuckles look darker than ever before. Like curses carved into him.
Blood stains the wood despite the towels pressed against his side, and the sight of it makes my stomach lurch.
He’s staring straight up at the ceiling, seemingly unaware of the people bustling around him.
A man who can only be a doctor, despite the jeans and t-shirt he wears and his unshaven face, is working with efficient calm, his hands steady as he cleans and stitches.
Kaz’s head turns at the sound of my entrance, his eyes finding mine instantly. Even like this, even broken and bloodied, there’s something infuriatingly solid about him.
“What are you doing here?” he growls.
The sound of his voice snaps something in me. “What am I doing here?” I repeat, advancing on him, terrified that at any moment he might go still. He’s too pale, too cool to the touch when my fingers brush his ribs. “What are you doing here, Kazimir? You should be at a hospital.”
His jaw tightens. “This is faster. The hangar was south, the hospital too far north. Middle ground.” He gestures weakly at the room, the home, the grounds.
“This is reckless,” I fire back, wrapping my hand around his. “You’re hurt. You could have died.”
He scoffs weakly. “I didn’t.”
“You don’t get points for that,” I say, my voice shaking now. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to see that headline and not know if you’re alive or dead?”
Kaz’s eyes search the room behind me. “You should go to your room—”
The doctor clears his throat, amusement flickering in his eyes despite the tension. “I’m Michael,” he says mildly. “And in my professional opinion, Mr. Baranov, I’d prefer she stays.”
Kazimir shoots him a look.
“What?” the doctor replies, unfazed. “Your blood pressure has gone up since she came into the room, and your oxygen level as well. I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.”
I glare at both of them. “I might kill him myself if he recovers from this.”
“You are loud,” Kazimir mutters, his eyes slipping closed in a way that makes my heart race.
“And you are impossible,” I shoot back, squeezing his hand. “You don’t get to shut me away after pulling something like this. I’m not leaving until I know you’re okay.”
He starts to say something else, then winces as Michael adjusts a stitch. The doctor hums thoughtfully. “You should probably conserve your energy,” he advises. “Arguing with her is ill-advised.”
Kazimir glares at the ceiling. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
Despite myself, a shaky laugh escapes me, and the sound seems to surprise us both. I move closer, my anger still there but softened by the reality of his injuries, and the way his skin feels too cool under my fingertips. “Is he going to be okay?” I ask, ignoring the way Kazimir sighs in annoyance.
Michael nods, his eyes still on the wound, prodding the edge of it.
“Yes. It was a through-and-through, and I don’t like how close it got to his spleen, but if he can manage a quiet recovery, I think he’ll be fine.
I have a bag of O-negative on the way; you lost more blood than I’d like, Kaz. You should have come back sooner.”
Kaz mutters something about asking questions and getting answers…too low for anyone to hear. But his eyes are open, and the pressure of his hand in mine is steady.
“You scared me,” I say quietly.
His gaze shifts back to me, something raw and unguarded flickering there before he reins it in. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” I insist. “But you will be. Unless you pull this again. Then I’ll come after you myself.”
Michael finishes the last bandage and steps back, stripping off his gloves. “He’ll need rest,” he says. “Someone should keep an eye on him tonight.”
“I will,” I say immediately.
Kazimir opens his mouth to argue, then stops. His eyes search my face, calculating, conflicted.
“She’s not leaving,” Michael adds cheerfully. “And frankly, I wouldn’t try to make her.”
Silence stretches between us, thick and loaded.
“Fine,” Kazimir says at last, the word heavy with resignation. “Stay.”
Relief crashes through me so hard my knees almost buckle.
They move him carefully, helping him up the stairs and into his bedroom. I hover uselessly as they settle him onto the bed, adjusting pillows, checking vitals, murmuring instructions.
One of the housekeepers slips into the room and quietly tells me that my father has left. I feel a pang of guilt shutting him out, but only nod in response. The knot in our relationship is something to worry about another day; it’s not as if we’ve been on the best of terms before this anyway.
When Michael finally leaves after checking that the bleeding hasn’t started up again, the room feels too quiet.
Kazimir watches me from the bed, his expression unreadable. “You didn’t have to come,” he says softly.
“Yes,” I reply, pulling a chair closer and sitting down.
“I did.” It’s quiet for a while in a way that’s almost peaceful.
He seems to have accepted that I’ll stay, but something keeps me stiff in the chair, conscious that I’m no longer playing a part by being at his side.
“Has this happened before?” I ask softly.
Kaz shifts, not meeting my eyes. “Of course,” he murmurs grouchily. “You’ve always had opinions about what I do, who I am, Alyona, haven’t you? Before we even met. Think of the worst you can imagine, and I’ve done it. This isn’t the first time I’ve bled in this bed.”
There’s something to the confession that sounds almost bitter. But it’s honest. I hold my breath looking at him, imagining nights like this full of pain and stitches and loneliness.
“You’ve never wanted,” I ask hesitantly, “someone to be here through all of it?”
His eyes search mine in the shadows of the room, hand shifting on the sheets, though he doesn’t quite reach for me. And it takes everything in me to stay in the chair, to not kneel on the bed next to him and press my head to his chest just to make sure he’s still breathing.
“It would be horrible of me to subject someone to this.”
It’s the last response I expected. Laughter, maybe, at the idea of something more permanent with someone. After all, Kaz has made it clear that the very last thing he wants is someone to share this life.
So why did that sound like an apology?
For the first time since the fear took hold tonight, I let myself breathe. The house settles around us. Kaz slips into sleep reluctantly, fighting it the way only a mob boss could, and I sit there praying to gods I didn’t even think I believed in—
Just a little longer.
Not yet.
Please.