Chapter 27
Nadia
The instant the iodine touched torn flesh, searing pain shot straight through my nerve endings to my brain.
I sat on the cold bathroom tile, cotton swab stained brown with antiseptic in my hand. The skin on my elbow had peeled back in ragged flaps. My knee was a mess of bruises, purple and spreading, blood still seeping from the edges.
I didn't leave.
Riley had practically begged me over the phone to "fight back" or just get the hell out. But when I was lying there on that marble floor, watching Roman step right over me to cradle Vera in his arms like she was made of glass—something inside me just gave up.
I realized I didn't even have the strength to pack a bag.
Leave? Where to? All of Chicago belonged to the Sokolovs. If he didn't want me gone, I wouldn't make it past airport security. And if he didn't give a damn whether I stayed or left, slinking back to the South Side like a deserter would only give my bloodsucker parents something to laugh about.
So I did what any wounded animal does—I locked myself in this unfamiliar guest room and hid. No lights on, just the harsh fluorescent glare from the bathroom illuminating my pathetic state.
"Shit..."
I sucked in a breath, hands shaking as I slapped gauze over the wound.
The physical pain was almost a relief. It numbed the rotting hole in my chest, at least temporarily.
My mind kept flashing back to a few hours ago.
Those dark brown eyes had swept past my bleeding elbow without even a pause. That bone-cold command—"Go to your room"—had been an executioner's blade, severing every stupid fantasy I'd built on that Bahamas beach.
"Turns out I'm not even worth a single strand of Vera's hair to him."
I leaned against the tub, burying my face in my arms. No tears came. I was too empty even to cry. Just a suffocating void where something used to be.
I don't know how long I sat there on that freezing floor before a soft knock came at the door.
"Ma'am." Sofia's voice, unmistakably worried. "You haven't eaten all day. I had the kitchen make something. It's outside your door. Please... please eat. You need nutrition to heal."
I didn't answer.
Silence. Then what sounded like a sigh, followed by Sofia lowering her voice like she was sharing good news to comfort me.
"Ma'am, actually... Miss Vera isn't at the manor anymore."
My lashes flickered. I raised my head slowly.
"Pakhan ordered the best medical team and convoy to transfer her to our family's private hospital in the North District." Sofia's tone carried forced reassurance. "No one else is at the manor now. You don't need to feel uncomfortable anymore. Pakhan... he does care about your feelings."
Care about my feelings?
I listened to Sofia's words, my lips twisting into a smile more bitter than any medicine.
Maybe Sofia didn't understand how the Bratva operated. Or maybe she was just trying to comfort me. But after the time I'd spent at Roman's side, I wasn't that naive South Side girl anymore.
Moving Vera out of the manor had nothing to do with "my feelings."
The manor was secure, but medical equipment was limited.
Vera had severe hemophilia. After that fall down the stairs today, internal bleeding was a serious risk.
Roman was terrified something might happen to her here—terrified that his "jealous" wife might hurt her again.
That's why he couldn't wait to get her transferred to a hospital with top-tier medical resources.
He'd even sent armed guards and the best doctors to protect and care for her.
That's how he loved someone. Total security. Total devotion.
And me?
I got hurt and thrown in this guest room. Beyond that box of cold medical supplies outside my door, he hadn't asked a single question.
"I understand. Thank you, Sofia." My voice came out hoarse, like it had been scraped with sandpaper. "Just leave it there. I'll eat later."
Footsteps faded down the hall.
I pushed myself up from the floor, using the wall for support. My knee screamed in protest, making me stumble, but I bit down hard and didn't make a sound.
I walked to the window and pulled back the heavy blackout curtains.
Chicago's night sky hung dark and heavy. City lights flickered in the cold wind like indifferent eyes watching.
In this fortress of a manor, I'd thought I'd found shelter. Now I understood—this was never a haven. Just a gilded cage.
I couldn't keep drowning in self-pity.
Roman Sokolov didn't need me. He had his precious Vera, his Bratva empire. And me? If I stayed here wallowing, that brutal world would swallow me whole. Not even bones would remain.
I turned to face the mirror, staring at the pale, hollow-eyed woman reflected back.
I needed an exit strategy.
Contract or no contract, whether Roman wanted me gone or not—I couldn't leave my fate in the hands of a man who'd discard me like trash for another woman.
I took a deep breath and forced myself to the door, picking up the bowl of soup that had gone lukewarm.
I had to survive. Had to let these wounds heal. And then, when the time came, I'd get the hell out of this place that had left me bleeding from every surface.
After that, I became a ghost everyone forgot.
Four days. Four days locked in the East Wing guest room.
The door wasn't bolted, but two expressionless guards stood posted outside twenty-four seven.
Roman's order from the staircase—"Watch her, don't let her leave the room"—was being executed with military precision.
I tried getting the guards to relay messages to Roman. They might as well have been wooden statues.
Gradually, that faint ember of hope inside me flickered out. I was a prisoner awaiting sentencing. Or maybe just expired merchandise tossed in the trash.
The wounds from tumbling down those stairs had scabbed over in ugly purple-red crusts, edges swollen and infected.
I refused the family doctor again, just wrapped them sloppily with gauze and iodine from the first aid kit.
The bandages were loose, pulling at the wounds with every movement, sending sharp stabs of pain through me.
But I didn't want painkillers. The truth was, I'd grown dependent on the pain in some sick way. Only when those wounds burned could I feel alive, could I drag my consciousness back from that void of numbness.
Sofia brought three meals a day. She watched my face grow gaunt, my eyes go dead, and that composed expression she always wore gradually cracked with barely concealed worry.
"Ma'am, please eat something. This cod was flown in fresh today." Sofia set the silver tray before me, voice gentle. "Your wounds are infected. If you don't eat, how will your body hold up? Even if you're angry with Pakhan, you can't punish yourself like this."
I sat in the window seat's shadows, staring blankly at Chicago's gray sky, my voice dry as dead grass. "Where is he?"
Sofia's hand froze on the tray, eyes shifting away. "Pakhan has been... handling the internal purge. And... things at the hospital."
The hospital.
Where Vera was.
My lips twisted into something uglier than crying. Right. He had so much to handle. Traitors to deal with. His fragile, helpless white moonlight to watch over day and night. Why would he have time for the "criminal" who'd pushed his beloved down the stairs?
"Sofia, tell me..." My words came out distant, unfocused. "Did Bahamas really happen? Or did I just imagine it all because I wanted to be loved so badly?"
That embrace at thirty thousand feet. That low promise under the fireworks. That night when the power went out and he kicked down my door to pull me into his arms...
It had been too perfect. Perfect like a fairy tale. But when I remembered him in that hallway, not even glancing my way as he carried bleeding Vera out—when I remembered those hostile eyes warning me "Enough"—all that sweetness seemed absurd.
"Ma'am..." Sofia's eyes reddened. She stepped forward like she wanted to take my hand. "Pakhan really does care about you. That day when he came running—"
"Stop, Sofia." I cut her off coldly, pulling my hands into my sleeves. "I'm tired. I want to be alone."
Sofia sighed, shook her head, and left with the untouched tray.
The room fell silent again. My mental state deteriorated daily. Sleep became impossible. Every time I closed my eyes, I dreamed of falling through an endless abyss while Roman stood at the edge, watching with cold indifference.
Until the fifth evening.
A knock came at the guest room door. Hurried. Hesitant.
"Come in." I thought it was staff collecting trash.
The door cracked open. A young maid I barely recognized stood there, nervous, eyes darting everywhere but at me.
"What is it?" I frowned.
"Ma'am..." The maid swallowed, voice dropping to a stammer. "Pakhan... Pakhan is back. He's... he's waiting for you in the old storage room downstairs. He said there's something about... about the contract. That he needs to settle things with you."
My heart skipped.
Settle things.
The words hit like a sledgehammer to my chest, but somehow they shattered the numbness that had plagued me for days. He was finally willing to see me. Finally ready to settle accounts. Was this about Vera's injury? Or was he bringing divorce papers to throw me out?
Either way, I had to face it. I couldn't keep hiding in this room like a coward, poisoning myself with memories of false promises.
"I understand." I stood, throwing on a black cardigan, and followed the maid past the two guards who—having received some order—didn't try to stop me this time.
The old storage room in Sokolov Manor's basement was buried in the building's deepest recesses.
Perpetually cold and damp, it held decades of archived files, discarded antique furniture, and things that couldn't see daylight.
The long corridor had no windows, just a few dim wall sconces casting sickly yellow light.
"Just through that iron door, Mrs. Sokolova." The young maid pointed to a rust-stained heavy door at the corridor's end, voice shaking. "Pakhan said... you should go in alone. I... I'll leave you here."