Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Tolya
Tolya’s Penthouse
My shirt is soaked with blood, hers and his, as I enter the penthouse. But it doesn’t matter. None of it matters except the fragile weight in my arms. Eva is barely conscious, head nestled against my shoulder, her breath shallow.
Nico is already there waiting, his jacket tossed over a chair, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Ready and waiting with the doctor on staff. He says nothing, just gives a sharp nod to the woman standing beside him.
The doctor’s assistant, slim, serious, full of quiet competence, rushes forward. Her gloved hands reach for Eva, but I don’t let go.
Not yet.
“Where are you set up?” I growl, moving past them.
“Master bedroom.” Nico says.
No one interferes as I carry her down the hallway. I hear the Doctor and his assistant pad lightly behind me.
I lay her down gently, brushing sweat-damp hair from her forehead. Her eyes flutter open, just for a second. Just long enough to find mine. There’s pain there. Exhaustion. But something else too, something fierce that refuses to break.
She’s still fighting.
I hear someone clear their throat behind me, gaining my attention.
The assistant again. “Sir. We need space to work.”
At first, I don’t move, objecting to being separated again so soon.
I just got her back.
“I’m not leaving her.”
She steps closer, voice calm but firm. “You brought us here to help her. Let us do that. Huh?”
The words make sense but still, I hesitate.
The doctor enters behind her, older, his face carved with wrinkles and experience. He doesn’t speak right away, beginning the assessment of Eva’s condition with a practiced eye. Then he turns to me, unblinking.
“You’re not a doctor, Tolya. You can’t help here.”
“I’m her husband,” I say through clenched teeth.
“And if you want her to recover, you’ll get out of my way and let me do my job.”
The fury in me rises like bile—but I swallow it. He’s right.
I glance back at Eva, taking in the bruises darkening her cheekbone, the swelling above her temple. She doesn’t need my rage right now. She needs care and room to recover.
Slowly, I back away.
“Let me know the second you’re done,” I say, voice low, deadly calm.
The doctor nods once, then moves in. My presence is forgotten as the two start to work on her small, fractured body.
I step into the hallway, the door shutting behind me with a soft click. I stand there, fists clenched, a fear that I’ve never known consuming my gut.
Nico appears beside me, leading me out to the living room and handing me a tumbler of whiskey without a word. I stand there for a long moment, jaw clenched, hands still aching.
The room feels too small, the walls too bright. I rake a hand through my hair, blood still drying along my wrist from earlier—Yaro’s blood. Mixed with some of my own where the skin had broken open from the repeated blows.
I take up pacing beside the bar. After a few laps I look at him, really look at him, as he leans against the opposite wall. He’s breathing hard, his jacket slung over one shoulder, shirt half-untucked, filthy—covered in sticky black mud like he’d crawled through a sewer.
I narrow my eyes at his appearance. “What the hell happened to you?”
He glances down at his soiled clothes, brushing at the dried mud on his pants like he just noticed.
“Ran into a situation,” he says, tone too casual for my liking.
I arch a brow. “What kind of situation?”
His jaw flexes. Then he glances toward the closed bedroom door, the weight of everything behind it looming over us.
“Not now,” he says tightly. “We’ll talk later.”
He steps past me, heading toward the liquor cabinet. I grab his arm before he can move too far.
“Nico.”
He meets my eyes.
“What kind of situation?” I press.
A flicker of something crosses his expression—guilt? No. Something else. Something much more complicated.
“I found someone,” he says finally, voice low. “Out there. Near the site. It’s... not what you think, but now's not the time to get into it.”
His words are calm, but there’s tension in his shoulders. His fingers twitch slightly at his side.
Someone. He found someone.
I release his arm, reading between the lines, but not pushing further, yet. He’s right. Now isn’t the time.
Nico pours himself another drink with the kind of quiet that suggests he’s trying not to think too hard. I stay near the opening of the hall, every muscle coiled, listening for footsteps, voices, anything from the room where they’re tending to my wife.
The silence between us stretches.
Finally, he says, “You did what had to be done.”
I nod once, jaw tight.
“Is she—?”
“I don’t know.” My voice cracks the silence like a whip. “She was barely conscious. He hit her in the head pretty hard. Tied her up. She fought back.”
Nico doesn’t ask if Yaro’s alive. He doesn’t have to.
He just swallows his own drink and mutters, “Fucking hell.”
I don’t say anything further. Too busy staring at the closed door, every muscle in my body pulled tight as wire, as if sheer willpower would keep her breathing.
Emotions race through me one after the other: Guilt. Shame. Fear.
The kind of feelings I’ve buried under a hundred bodies and a thousand lies since taking my position as Pakhan. The kind of feelings I thought I wasn’t capable of any longer.
And I realize I don’t know if I’d survive losing her.
Time passes in slow drips. I’ve paced the length of the hallway outside the bedroom so many times, I’ve worn a track in the Persian rug.
Nico hasn’t spoken since pouring himself a third drink. He just sits in the armchair across from me, nursing the glass, watching the door like he can will it to open faster.
Then finally—finally—it does.
The doctor steps out, removing his gloves with a soft snap. His assistant lingering behind him. They both look far calmer than I feel inside.
I’m across the hall in two steps. Nico jumps up behind me.
“Well?” I demand.
He holds up a hand, firm but not unkind. “You can see her now. She’s stable. You got her here just in time.”
My throat tightens. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding, but I don’t relax. Because I can tell by the look on his face there is a but coming.
“But,” he continued, tone professional. “She’s sustained a mild concussion, some facial trauma—swelling, bruising, but no fractures. A few ribs are bruised, but intact. She’ll be sore for a while. Shaken. Bed rest will be required for a few weeks at the least.”
“Bed rest,” I narrow my eyes, jaw clenched. “Why?”
The doctor’s face shifts—less clinical now. More careful. “She’s pregnant.”
Time stops. Silence follows his announcement. The hallway, the walls, the world go still all around me.
I blink once. Then again. “What did you just say?”
“She’s pregnant,” he repeats calmly. “It’s very early.
Maybe 3 or 4 weeks, give or take. We wouldn’t have known if she hadn’t been protecting her stomach so instinctively.
When I ran the test, it came back positive and confirmed it.
We won’t know for sure for several weeks still if the baby will survive or not.
She’s still in the danger window so bed rest is non-negotiable. ”
I stagger back a step. The floor feels suddenly unsteady beneath my feet. Nico’s glass slips from his fingers and crashes to the ground beside me.
“The fuck—?” he mutters, staring at me, demanding. “Did you know?”
I shake my head, suddenly unable to speak. No, I didn’t know.
The doctor smirks faintly, then turns his attention back to me. “You didn’t know?”
I don’t answer. Still struck in silent shock.
He pats my shoulder with mock sympathy and more than a little amusement. “Well… congratulations, Tolya. You’re going to be a father.”
The weight of it settles in my chest like a like a fucking sledgehammer. And the doctor goes on, oblivious to the internal implosion happening in front of him.
“She’ll need strict bed rest. Minimal stress. No lifting, no exertion. That means no travel, no late nights, no standing for long periods of time. And above all else no trauma. The next few weeks are critical.”
“She didn’t tell me,” I say hoarsely. I don’t even know who I’m talking to, the doctor, Nico, the empty hallway, myself.
Nico's eyes flick between me and the closed bedroom door. “She didn’t tell me either.”
The doctor nods, his face neutral. “That’s not uncommon. Many women wait until they’re sure. Especially under… difficult circumstances.”
I swallow hard. Difficult doesn’t begin to fucking cover everything that has happened.
“Will she be okay?” I ask quietly.
“With rest and careful monitoring, yes. But if anything like this happens again…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.
I nod stiffly.
He gives a final instruction to the assistant, then turns back to me. “I’ll return tomorrow to check on her. In the meantime, make sure she doesn’t try to be brave. No pushing herself. Not even to get out of bed.”
I watch him retreat. Listen to the echo of his shoes fading down the hallway.
Then I turn back to face Nico and we share a dumbfounded expression. She didn’t tell me. She didn’t tell anyone.
There’s more than just a war to fight now.
There’s a life to protect.
And I will burn this fucking city to the ground before I let anyone touch her again. Or our child.
“Go.” Nico’s voice breaks through my thoughts. Drawing me back to the here and now. “Go see her, I’ll be there in a few minutes. I need to check on someone first.”
There’s that word again, someone. I watch him retreat into the foyer, his phone to his ear, talking in quiet tones. Deciding it’s an issue for another day I turn back to the hallway and go to see my wife.
The door closes softly behind me. And for a moment, I just stand there, the quiet hum of the room pressing against my senses. The lights are dimmed, casting the space in a soft golden glow. The bed seems too big for her fragile body tucked beneath the covers, bruised and pale.