Chapter 28 #2
I wasn’t used to waiting. I didn’t do waiting. Every hour that passed without word from Rothman made my skin crawl. I barely slept. Barely ate. Every time my phone buzzed, my pulse went wild. Every time it wasn’t him, I wanted to smash the screen to pieces.
I needed to keep moving. Do something. Anything.
So I did the one thing I promised her.
I meant it when I told Kira that I’d find her mother. I hadn’t forgotten. I never forget shit like that. Not when it matters. And especially not when it’s about her.
Rothman’s silence was eating me alive, but I couldn’t sit there staring at the goddamn wall, waiting for news about Mila that might never come.
So I tracked her down.
Didn’t take long. Her mother was locked up in one of those high-end clinics—private, polished, and quiet as the fucking grave. The kind of place where money bought silence, not healing. Where they didn’t care if the pills made you a ghost, so long as the bills kept clearing.
But before I brought Kira anywhere near it, I had to see for myself. Had to know if what waited for her there would destroy her.
Because Kira remembered a mother who drifted but still smiled. A woman numbed by meds but still there somewhere. And if what I found behind those locked doors was just a shell—if the bastard had broken her completely—I needed to find a way to soften the blow. Or maybe burn the whole place down.
Either way, I wasn’t letting her walk into that alone.
So I went first and told no one.
I just drove, jaw clenched, knuckles white on the steering wheel, the city bleeding away behind me as the road stretched out ahead. The clinic sat just outside the city limits, hidden by pines and promises. It looked peaceful from the outside.
They always fucking do.
But I knew better.
I walked through the front doors with my best fake smile, palms slick in my gloves and temper under control—for now.
Fear has a smell. People like me learn it early.
The receptionist barely looked up. I didn’t waste time with pleasantries. Her fingers froze on the keyboard when she finally met my eyes.
“I need to speak to whoever runs this place,” I said calmly. “Now.”
She swallowed. Once. Then nodded like her neck had forgotten how to do anything else.
Phones were lifted. Whispers happened behind hands and then she rose from her chair.
“Follow me,” she said, her voice tight. I followed her down a sterile corridor that reeked of false cleanliness.
She stopped outside a door with frosted glass and gold lettering that read ADMINISTRATION.
She gestured toward the chair beside it. “He’ll see you in a moment.”
I laughed. “That’s cute,” I said, walking past. “But no one keeps me waiting.”
I threw open the door and stepped inside.
A man in a designer suit sat behind the desk, speaking to what looked like a well-fed donor or another snake in polished shoes. Didn’t matter.
“Out,” I said flatly.
The man in the chair blinked. “Excuse me?”
I smiled without humor. “Get the fuck out before I start rearranging bones just to pass the time.”
He scrambled up, face pale, clutching his briefcase like it was a shield.
“Be a doll and shut that door behind you,” I added as he bolted.
The administrator—a soft-bellied, smooth-skinned puppet in an overpriced suit—rose to his feet, trying to salvage dignity. “Who the hell are you? You can’t just barge in here like this—”
I was already circling the desk.
I pressed both hands down on his shoulders and shoved.
“Sit.”
He did.
“Let’s not waste oxygen,” I said pleasantly and leaned in. “Irina Sokolova. You know her. Of course you do. Her husband compensates you generously to make sure she stays right where she is.”
His eyes twitched. Sweat gathered at his temples.
“Before you do anything stupid,” I continued, voice low, casual, almost amused, “I’d think real fucking hard about calling Sokolov or anyone else.
Because if you do—I’ll know. I know where your wife does yoga.
I know what school your daughter goes to.
I know what your son jerks off to in his upstairs room. ”
I leaned down, close enough for him to smell my aftershave. “I’ll slip into their rooms at night and paint their pillows red if a single word about this leaves your mouth.”
His skin went paper white. One hand trembled under the desk.
I straightened and patted his shoulder, almost fond.
“There we go. Communication—what a beautiful thing.”
I dragged a chair out and dropped into it like it was my office, boots landing against the edge of his desk. My hands laced together near my mouth, elbows resting casually on the armrests as I stared him down like this was a friendly little chat over coffee and not a warning before execution.
“Now. Back to business. Irina Sokolova. If I were to go see her right now, do you think she’d be able to hold a conversation? You think she’d even recognize her own fucking name?”
His lips parted, then closed. His throat bobbed.
Didn’t need the answer.
“Yeah,” I muttered. “That’s what I thought.”
I leaned back slightly, fingers still interlaced near my mouth, studying him like a problem I already knew the solution to.
“So,” I said calmly, “this is how it’s going to work.”
His eyes flicked up to mine. Didn’t like what he saw there.
“I’m going to come back here,” I continued, voice light, almost conversational. “I won’t tell you when. Tomorrow. Next week. Next month. Surprise visits. I love those.”
He swallowed hard.
“And when I do,” I went on, “I expect you to be doing your actual fucking job. Not sedating her into a decorative plant. Not drugging her into compliance. I mean real treatment. Medication that helps. Therapy that does something. Not whatever chemical lobotomy you’re getting paid to perform right now. ”
His hands were shaking openly now.
“I know exactly what this place is,” I said, tone sharpening just enough to cut. “I know you’re being paid very well to keep her quiet, compliant, and conveniently absent from the world. But that arrangement? It’s over.”
I leaned forward, boots scraping softly against the desk as I shifted.
“The next time I walk in here, I want to be able to talk to her. And the time after that, I want to be talking about getting her the hell out of this place.”
He tried to speak. Failed. Tried again.
“I—I understand,” he said finally, voice thin.
“Good,” I replied. “Because if you don’t follow my instructions, you already know what happens.”
I tilted my head, studying the sweat sliding down his temple.
“And just so we’re crystal clear,” I added mildly, “if you decide to get brave and tell Sokolov about me—if you think cutting a deal might save you—don’t worry. I have men behind me. Very capable men. If something happens to me, they’ll finish what I started.”
He nodded too fast. Once. Twice.
“Yes,” he whispered. “Yes. I’ll do it. I swear.”
I stood, smoothing my jacket like we’d just wrapped up a pleasant business meeting.
“Great,” I said, turning toward the door.
Then I paused and glanced back at him.
“Great talk,” I added casually. “No fainting, no pissing. You’re exceeding expectations.”