Lobanov Bratva Blood Debt (Lobanov Bratva #4)

Chapter One

Alina’s POV

I heard my name before Hanna got to me. By the time she got to me, I was already on my feet and pushing the table back.

“Emergency,” she announced, her voice urgent.

“Right,” I breathed, crossing the short distance between the sitting area of the room and the doorway.

“Yves and Irina have gone to call the others,” she said as we both left the room.

“Okay,” I answered, my eyes on the clock as we rushed down the hallway.

10:16 am.

“Any info yet?” I inquired.

“Motorcycle crash. There may be internal bleeding. 30-year-old male. That’s all I know.”

“Urgent trauma laparotomy, most likely,” I stated as we turned to the left at the end of the hallway. Green scrubs and white coats flew around as we got to the short hallway that led to the operating rooms. It was a normal sight around here, the surest tell that there was another emergency.

“OR 3,” Hanna mentioned beside me.

One minute later we were putting on surgical caps and jackets. Hanna pushed the door open, and the sterile smell of disinfectant hit my nose, welcoming me. The air in OR 3 was thick with nervous energy; it was someone’s life, after all.

“Great! Nurse,” Dr. Smirnov called, nodding towards me. “Massive internal hemorrhage from a motorcycle crash.”

He was one of the doctors I hoped would be the lead surgeon whenever I had to be in the OR. Even under great pressure, Dr. Smirnov didn’t bark insults or even curse words at others. He yelled, alright. But it was bearable and, sometimes, even effective in making things move faster.

“Understood,” I confirmed, moving closer to where the doctor and other staff surrounded the patient.

With just one blink, I switched to circulating nurse mode.

While giving care to recuperating patients was my greatest joy, I had found great fulfillment since becoming the circulating nurse at the clinic.

As one of several circulating nurses, the title and its duties didn’t whisk me away from the ward too often.

So, I was more than happy to show up and join hands with those who saved lives, first-hand.

While I wasn’t the one who handled the scalpel, in my capacity as the circulating nurse, I was the patient’s eyes, ears, and advocate.

“Let’s save another life, guys,” the doctor said, the smile in his gray eyes unmissable even though his mask practically covered his whole face.

A flurry of activities began with machines beeping and orders resounding.

The anesthesiologist, Dr. Volkova, called out, “BP tanking! 70/40! Pumping in a third unit of O-Neg now.”

With my eyes on her, I nodded. I walked quickly to the fluid warmer controls. The patient was becoming ice cold, a deadly complication known in my field as the trauma triad. I cranked the temperature up, ensuring every drop being pumped into his veins is warmed to combat hypothermia.

“More volume. He needs more volume, Alina!” Dr. Smirnov yelled, already deep into the patient’s abdominal cavity. His strained voice was another sign that he was trying to fight a bleed that threatened to swallow everything.

I moved swiftly to the cell saver machine, verifying the setup with a nod to Hanna. Almost soundlessly, the machine did what it does best—auto-recycling the patient’s lost blood.

“Cell saver on max flow, Dr. Smirnov,” I replied. “Pumping back filtered whole blood.”

I glanced at the whiteboard that read, ‘COUNT: Initial Instrument Count Verified.’

My duty now was to protect the patient from error.

“Scalpel. No, wait. Sucker, fast! We can’t see the source!”

I watched silently as Dr. Smirnov shouted instructions to the others.

The scrub nurse passed the large suction tip to the doctor.

My eyes went to the count sheet, then to the sterile field, and finally, back to the massive pile of bloody sponges accumulating in the trash bin. They were battling the flood.

Focus, Alina.

“Hanna, let’s do a quick sponge count before he clamps the liver tear,” I called out.

Hanna looked up, her eyes serious. “Lap sponges, 10 out.”

It was beyond just counting. It was a mandatory safety check to reset the room’s focus before they closed a major vessel. It was a necessary pause to acknowledge the risk before the surgeon proceeded.

Had it been under a more relaxed circumstance, I would have laughed at the memory of Dr. Verma rudely questioning me some months ago in this same room.

“What the fuck is the count for? We have more important work to do, nurse!” he spat.

“It’s to ensure you haven’t left an avoidable complication behind, doctor,” I replied, my voice calm even though I was seething inside. “I’m the calm voice of safety here, and you won’t stop me from doing my job, sir.”

Dr. Smirnov’s eyes went temporarily still as he announced, “Source secured. We have the vena cava tear clamped.”

A collective breath seemed to leave the room.

I documented the time of the clamp, the estimated blood loss, and the medication dosage the doctor just pushed.

1800 ml EBL.

“Alina, we need two units of Rh-Positive packed cells ASAP,” Dr. Smirnov divulged before adding, “and call for the portable ultrasound for post-closure check.”

I grabbed the phone and dialed the blood bank, my eyes not leaving the monitor.

80/55.

BP is climbing slowly.

“Blood bank says two units are inbound,” I relayed to Dr. Smirnov, who nodded in quick acknowledgement. Then I moved to the door, opening it just a crack to make direct eye contact with the waiting young man. “OR 3 needs a portable U/S. Stat.”

Walking back to the monitor, my eyes darted to the patient.

I felt moved to renew my promise to myself to avoid any crisis as the patient was pulled back from the brink. To not stop counting until he was safely out of the room. To fight for this patient’s life and rights until he walked out of the hospital, just like the others before him.

*********

Laughter rang out from the corner we occupied in the cafe. Laughter was easy in the absence of blood. The small cafe was our first choice for mid-shift snacking: It was not close enough to the clinic that we’d run into the families of admitted patients and, they served a mean cup of espresso.

The patient from OR 3 was doing well after the successful surgery and was expected to wake up in an hour or two. My patients were also doing well in their different wards, so although the day started on a very busy note, all was going fine.

On other days, when we lost a patient or had to watch a patient languish in pain because their relatives couldn’t afford the minimum payment for their treatment or surgery, we’d still gather at this same cafe, in the same corner.

However, our laughter would be replaced with silence, and the almost-empty table would be filled with barely-touched snacks as we drowned ourselves in sad cups of black tea.

“I’ve never seen someone who works faster with their hands,” Ivan, the young resident doctor remarked as I pulled myself out of my thoughts.

I warily brought my straw to my lips as four pairs of eyes landed on me for a reason I had clearly missed out on.

“He’s talking about you,” Hanna pointed out, giggling.

“Oh…” I remarked.

“You are apparently not here with us,” Ivan uttered, chuckling.

“Uh-uh,” Amanda said. “Ivan was talking about how fast you move around in work mode.”

I chuckled. “Nobody is slow in an emergency.”

“Yeah, but you’re faster. Just take your flowers,” Ivan insisted.

“Shut up,” I drawled, taking another bite of my sweet blini.

“Oh, speaking of flowers, you guys should have seen the large bouquet that Shawna tossed in the trash this morning,” Amanda said, leaning conspiratorially closer to the round table.

“Gossip,” Ivan muttered, shaking his head from side to side.

“I prefer observant butterfly,” she retorted, smirking.

“Oh, remind me, Hanna, is ‘butterfly’ a new position created to deliver healthcare and save lives?” he asked, turning to a laughing Hanna.

“Observation is a crucial beginning step in the scientific process,” Amanda defended, shrugging like someone who just made a very valid point.

“Whether it’s love that’s refusing to bloom or a patient’s health, as long as observation is being done…” I remarked, chuckling.

“That’s right,” Amanda answered. “Anyways—”

“You’re still going to tell us, aren’t you?” Ivan chipped in.

“Hm-mm,” she answered. “She was almost screaming as she asked Eunice to throw it away. I wanted to laugh at the annoyed look she wore and scold her for being so callous all at the same time.”

“Still from Dr. Stepan?” Hanna asked, and Amanda answered with a nod.

“Who else?” I questioned, taking another gulp of my drink.

“Poor man,” Ivan remarked.

“Nope. Poor woman. That’s the correct description,” Amanda said.

“Dr. Stepan might be an older man, but he’d give a thirty-something a run for his money.

The man is fit. He’s the one giving love here; he’s young at heart.

But Shawna? With all that hard-to-get energy and frowning whenever he’s around, she acts like she’s not in her late twenties.

When she starts spotting wrinkles, she’ll realize what she’s lost. Dr. Stepan will find someone else. ”

“I heard she made it clear that she wasn’t okay with their age gap. So, why should she regret refusing him? I mean, everyone is entitled to their choices and all,” I chimed in.

“I think it’s not about her refusing him; it’s how she treats him and acts around him. Making rude remarks about him, openly trashing his gifts. It’s odious, really,” Ivan explained.

“Exactly,” Amanda agreed. “It’s nobody’s business if she says no to him. But treating him like a second-class citizen says the kind of person she really is. Do you see yourself treating a man, any man, like that just because he stated his interest in you like a normal person, Alina?”

“Never. Alina’s too decent for that,” Hanna answered.