Chapter Ten #3
Marco sat on the edge of his bed, his left arm bandaged and bound in a sling. Despite the throbbing pain, he was grinning broadly, watching his wife’s spectacular meltdown with, unrepentant amusement.
"A bullet to the shoulder, Marco?" Raisa hissed, marching over to stand in front of him, her hands on her hips. "A stray round? You are a Capo! You should have cleared the upper elevation!"
"I was busy covering your brother’s dropped flank, cara," Marco retorted smoothly, offering her a charming, lopsided smile. "As you so brilliantly predicted."
Raisa spun on her heel, glaring at Dmitri, who was receiving a line of stitches along his ribs. "And you! A knife wound? You let a mercenary get within grappling distance in an open warehouse?"
Dmitri laughed, wincing slightly as the needle pierced his skin. "I ran out of bullets, Raisa. The knife seemed pragmatic at the time. Besides, it is just a scratch."
"You are all amateurs!" Raisa fumed, throwing her hands in the air, pacing furiously between the beds. "Arrogant, reckless amateurs!"
While Raisa directed her wrath at Marco and Dmitri, a much quieter, far more devastating scene was unfolding by the third bed.
Aleksandr Voronin sat on the edge of the mattress, a thick, blood-spotted bandage wrapped tightly around his thigh. He wasn't smiling, and he wasn't engaging in the banter. All of his attention was focused on the small, delicate woman sitting on a low stool beside him.
Tamara had both of her small hands wrapped tightly around Sasha’s palm.
She was silent, but tears were spilling continuously over her dark lashes, tracking down her pale cheeks to drip onto their joined hands.
The sheer terror of seeing the man she loved carried into the medical wing covered in blood had shattered her serene composure.
Sasha leaned forward, his heart twisting violently in his chest. He reached out with his free hand, his rough thumb gently wiping a tear from her cheek.
"Tamara," Sasha murmured, his voice a low, desperate rumble of reassurance, ignoring the physician checking his vitals. "Tamara, dusha moya, look at me. It is a flesh wound. The bullet passed clean through the muscle. I am perfectly fine."
Tamara sniffled, her silver eyes looking up at him, brimming with a heartbreaking, fragile fear. "You were bleeding so much, Aleksandr. There was so much blood on your armor."
"It was not my blood," Sasha lied smoothly, leaning his forehead gently against hers. "I promised I would come back to you. I kept my promise. Please, do not cry. I cannot bear it when you cry."
The quiet, desperate intimacy of their exchange suddenly drew the attention of the rest of the room.
Raisa stopped pacing. She looked at Tamara’s silent tears, and the blazing, tactical fury in her sea-green eyes instantly morphed into a fierce, protective maternal instinct.
Raisa turned her glare directly onto the heir to the Bratva empire.
"Look what you did, Aleksandr," Raisa snapped, her tone dripping with intense disapproval.
She walked over to Tamara, resting a comforting hand on the girl's shoulder, glaring down at her older brother.
"You made her cry. You went out, got yourself shot because you refused to listen to my tactical advice, and now you have terrified your wife. "
Sasha looked up, taken aback by the sudden shift in aggression. "I did not get shot on purpose, Raisa."
"You are a brute, Sasha," Yelena Voronin declared, sweeping into the trauma bay behind her daughter. The elegant matriarch walked directly to Tamara’s side, offering the girl a soothing, maternal pat on the back before turning her sharp eyes on her eldest son.
"You promised to protect her peace of mind. Apologize to your wife."
Sasha stared at his mother in disbelief. He had just secured the entire southern docklands. He had taken a shotgun blast to the leg for the syndicate. And he was currently being reprimanded like a disobedient child for upsetting his bride.
From the other side of the room, Dmitri burst into loud, wheezing laughter, clutching his stitched side. "This is unbelievable. The Butcher of Moscow takes a bullet to secure the border, and he gets yelled at by his mother for making his wife weep."
Marco chuckled from his bed, shaking his head in amusement. "You should just apologize, Sasha. It is a battle you cannot win. Trust me."
Sasha looked at his brother, his mother, his furious sister, and the highly amused Italian Capo. He felt a brief, intense flash of annoyance at the loss of his authority.
But then, Sasha looked back down at Tamara. She offered him a small, watery, incredibly beautiful smile, her thumb gently stroking the back of his hand.
The annoyance instantly evaporated. Sasha sighed, a deep, rumbling sound of utter defeat.
The most dangerous man in Eastern Europe leaned down, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to his wife's knuckles, perfectly willing to endure the wrath of his entire family as long as the angel holding his hand never shed another tear.