Chapter 69
Matvey
The warehouse smells wrong.
Gun oil. Rust. Something metallic I can’t place. I’ve been running deals since I was thirteen years old, hauling crates for my father’s men while my half-brother Kliment learned to tie his fucking shoes. I know when something’s off.
“Matvey.” Lyosha’s voice cuts through the darkness. My second-in-command, my only real friend. “You feel that?”
“Yeah.” I shift my weight, hand drifting to the Glock at my hip. “I feel it.”
The Chechens are late. Twenty minutes late. In our world, that’s a lifetime. That’s enough time to set up an ambush, position snipers, and dig your own grave.
“We should go,” Lyosha mutters.
I’m about to agree when the warehouse doors explode open.
Gunfire erupts from three sides at once. Muzzle flashes light up the darkness like fucking fireworks. I drop low, return fire, and put two rounds center mass in the closest shooter. He goes down hard.
Lyosha moves like water, all brutal efficiency. He was Spetsnaz before the Bratva. Special forces. The man knows how to kill.
So do I.
I learned in the servant quarters of my father’s mansion, where bastard sons get beaten into submission or forged into weapons. I chose the latter. Spent fifteen years on the front lines while Kliment played prince in his ivory tower.
A bullet whines past my ear. Too close. I pivot, squeeze the trigger three times. Headshot. The shooter drops.
“Behind you!” Lyosha’s warning comes half a second too late.
I spin, but the blade’s already coming. The attacker lunges with a combat knife, aiming for my throat. I’m going to be too slow.
Then Lyosha’s there, throwing himself between us. The knife punches into his gut with a wet, terrible sound.
Something breaks inside my chest.
I grab the attacker’s head with both hands and twist. His neck snaps like kindling. He’s dead before he hits the ground.
“Lyosha.” I catch my friend as he staggers. Blood pours between his fingers where he’s clutching his stomach. Too much blood. “You stupid fucking idiot.”
“Couldn’t let... him kill you.” His face is gray. Shock setting in fast.
The gunfire’s dying down. My men are handling the rest. I count seven bodies scattered across the warehouse floor. Not ours. Theirs.
This was a setup. Someone wanted me dead.
I’ll find out who later. Right now, Lyosha’s bleeding out in my arms.
“Stay with me.” I haul him up, slinging his arm over my shoulders. He’s six-two and solid muscle. Deadweight. “Don’t you fucking die on me.”
He doesn’t answer. His head lolls forward.
I half-drag, half-carry him to the SUV. My hands are slick with his blood. It’s everywhere. On my clothes, on my face, pooling on the leather seats as I lay him down.
I drive like a demon through the streets of New York. Run three red lights. Don’t give a fuck about the speed limit. Lyosha’s breathing is shallow, rattling. Every second counts.
The clinic is in Brighton Beach, tucked between a pawn shop and a bakery. Bratva-owned, Bratva-run. No questions asked, no police involved.
I screech to a stop outside, throw open the back door, and grab Lyosha. He’s almost unconscious now. Not good. His skin’s cold and clammy.
I kick open the clinic door hard enough to crack the frame. “I need a doctor! Now!”
The waiting room’s empty except for one of our usual nurses, who takes one look at Lyosha and runs for the back.
Then she appears.
Young. Maybe mid-twenties. Dark blonde hair pulled into a ponytail, green eyes wide behind wire-rimmed glasses. She’s wearing scrubs and holding a fucking clipboard like this is a normal hospital, and Lyosha’s a normal patient.
“Sir, you need to fill out intake forms.” Her voice shakes, but she stands her ground. “And if this is a stabbing, I’m legally required to report it to the police.”
I stare at her. Actually stare. Because I’m covered in blood, holding my dying friend, and this woman wants paperwork.
“Get out of my way.”
“I can’t let you through without proper documentation.” She clutches the clipboard tighter. Her hands are shaking. “And I need to call the authorities about this injury.”
Something in my brain just... snaps.
I pull my Glock, thumb back the hammer, and press the barrel to her temple.
She goes absolutely still. I can see her pulse hammering in her throat. Smell the fear on her skin. But she doesn’t cry. Doesn’t scream. Those green eyes stay locked on mine.
“You have sixty seconds to save my friend’s life.” My voice is dead calm. The voice I use before I kill people. “Or I redecorate this clinic with your brains. Your choice, doctor.”
Her jaw clenches. For one insane second, I think she’s going to refuse. Going to stand there with my gun to her head and lecture me about hospital protocol.
Then she drops the clipboard.
“Exam room three. Now.” She moves past me, all brisk efficiency. “You, get him on the table. Someone prep the OR and call anesthesia.”
I follow her, Lyosha still in my arms. She’s already scrubbing her hands at the sink, barking orders at the nurses scrambling to help.
“Vitals?” she demands.
“BP’s dropping. Pulse thready at 120. Respiration shallow.”
She moves to Lyosha’s side, cuts away his blood-soaked shirt with surgical scissors. Her hands are steady now. All business. “Penetrating abdominal trauma. Likely nicked the hepatic artery based on blood loss. We need to move fast.”
I don’t holster my gun. I stand there in the doorway, Glock still in hand, watching her work.
She looks up at me. Those green eyes are sharp, focused. Completely unafraid now that she’s in her element.
“You can shoot me after I save him,” she says. “But right now, get the hell out of my operating room.”
The nurse looks at her, surprised, then at me with concern. I stay silent.
“I’m watching.” I move to the observation window, keeping my gun visible. A reminder. A promise.
She holds my gaze for a long moment. Then nods once and turns back to Lyosha.
“Let’s go. I want him intubated and prepped for emergency laparotomy. We’ve got maybe thirty minutes before he bleeds out completely.”
They wheel him toward the operating room. I follow, take up position in the observation gallery. The window gives me a perfect view. I press one hand against the glass, leaving a bloody handprint.
Below, the doctor’s already gowned and gloved. She positions herself at the table, scalpel in hand.
I watch her make the first incision.
My finger stays on the trigger.
If Lyosha dies, so does she.
Three hours.
Three fucking hours I stand here, watching this woman I’ve never seen before work to save my best friend’s life.
She’s good. Scary good. Her hands move with precision, no wasted motion. She calls out instructions in medical jargon I don’t understand, but I can see the results. The bleeding slows. Lyosha’s vitals stabilize on the monitors.
She’s fighting death itself, and she’s winning.
Around hour two, she glances up at the observation window. Finds me still there, still watching. Our eyes lock through the glass.
She doesn’t flinch. Just goes back to work.
I like that about her. The steel under all that fear.
Finally, she’s stitching him closed. The monitors show steady vitals. Color’s coming back to Lyosha’s face.
He’s going to live.
The tension drains from my shoulders. I didn’t realize how tightly I was wound until this moment. My best friend, my only friend, nearly died protecting me.
I’ll find out who set up that ambush. And I’ll make them suffer in ways that’ll become legend.
The doctor strips off her gloves, says something to the nurses, and disappears through a side door.
I holster my Glock and head downstairs.
She’s in the hallway, leaning against the wall, still in her surgical gown. There’s blood spattered on her sleeve. Lyosha’s blood. Her face is pale, exhausted.
When she sees me, she straightens. Tries to look brave.
I cross the space between us in three strides. Grab her by the throat. Slam her against the wall hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs.
She gasps, hands coming up to claw at my wrist. But I’m not choking her. Just holding her there, making her look at me.
“Who the fuck are you?” I demand. “Who hired you?”
“I... I don’t...” She can barely get the words out. “I applied... after Dr. Orlov died...”
“Orlov’s been dead three months.”
“I know. I applied for... for the position. Got hired two weeks ago.” Her voice is shaking now. “Please, I can’t breathe.”
I ease up slightly. Let her suck in air. But I don’t let go.
“Show me your paperwork. Now.”
She squeaks for a nurse to fetch it from the desk drawer in her office. I grab the paper as soon as the nurse returns with it and quickly scan it.
Employment offer. Signed by Kliment Zlobin.
My brother.
The incompetent, pampered piece of shit who’s never done a single useful thing in his entire worthless life.
I start laughing. The sound’s harsh, bitter, completely devoid of humor.
“Wrong fucking Daria,” I mutter.
“What?” Her eyes are huge, confused.
I pull out my phone, dial my father’s private line. He answers on the second ring.
“It’s done?” Arseni’s voice is cold, expectant.
“Lyosha’s alive. No thanks to your intelligence.” I switch to Russian, watching the doctor’s face as I speak. She doesn’t understand a word. “But we have a problem. Kliment hired the wrong doctor.”
Silence. Then: “Explain.”
“He hired Dr. Daria Tsaryov. Trauma surgeon, twenty-six, civilian.” I eye the woman in front of me. She’s still pinned to the wall, barely breathing. “Not Darla Tsaryov. The one who grew up in the organization.”
More silence. Colder this time. “Bring her to the house. We’ll handle it.”
He hangs up.
I look at the doctor. Really look at her. Dark blonde hair falling out of its ponytail. Green eyes full of terror and confusion. Delicate features, soft skin.
She saved Lyosha’s life.
She stood up to me with a gun to her head.
Something dark and possessive unfurls in my chest.
“You’re coming with me,” I tell her.
“I... what? No. I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“That wasn’t a request.”
I release her throat, grab her arm instead. Start dragging her toward the exit.
“Wait! Stop!” She tries to dig her heels in. “You can’t just kidnap me! I’ll scream! I’ll call the police!”
“Go ahead. Scream.” I keep walking, pulling her along like she weighs nothing. “See who comes to help you.”
She looks around wildly. The nurses, the security guards, everyone who works here, they all look away. They know better than to interfere with me.
She starts fighting then. Really fighting. Kicking, clawing, trying to bite me.
I spin her around, throw her over my shoulder in one smooth motion. She screams, beats her fists against my back. I ignore it.
“Put me down! You psychotic piece of shit! Put me down right now!”
I carry her out to the SUV, toss her into the back seat. She scrambles for the door handle but I’m already sliding in beside her, locking it with the child safety feature.
“Drive,” I tell my driver.
The engine starts. We pull away from the clinic.
The doctor stares at me, chest heaving, eyes bright with fury and fear.
“What are you going to do to me?”
I study her for a long moment. This woman who saved my friend. This woman my idiot brother hired by mistake. This woman I’m about to deliver to my father, who will absolutely order her death.
“I don’t know yet,” I say honestly.
And I realize with cold certainty that I’m not ready to let anyone else decide her fate.
Not even my father.
She’s mine now.