4. Dante
Dante
I've been standing in the hallway outside the guest suite for forty-seven minutes. Not pacing. Not checking my phone. Just standing with my back against the wall and my arms crossed, like a guard dog.
Dr. Rossi emerges, closing the door softly behind her.
She studies me for a beat before speaking.
"She's showering. Her current injuries are manageable.
Bruising across the ribs—left side, eighth and ninth—consistent with repeated blunt force.
Dehydration, moderate. Malnourishment, moderate to significant. "
She pauses, removes her reading glasses, and folds them into her coat pocket, wearing an expression that tells me she's choosing her next words carefully. "Those are the recent injuries."
“Recent?”
She pulls a tablet from under her arm and shows me the images from her portable X-ray.
"Healed fractures in both forearms. A hairline fracture in the left orbital socket—possibly two, overlapping, which makes it difficult to date. Several fingers on her right hand were broken and reset poorly." She meets my eyes. "These go back a decade or so."
The hallway is very quiet.
I hear the hum of the HVAC system. I hear my own pulse thudding murderously in my ears. A red tide rises behind my eyes.
Years.
Someone beat that girl for years. Broke her fingers. Cracked her eye socket.
"Who?" The word comes out barely above a whisper.
"I can't say definitively. But the pattern—the locations, the age of the injuries, the variety—is consistent with sustained domestic abuse by someone close to her. Could be a parent, a nanny, a caregiver, someone at school.”
The doctor holds my gaze a moment longer. “She’ll be ready to return home tomorrow.”
Then she's gone, and I'm alone in the hallway.
I mentally recite every reason why this isn’t my problem. She's twenty-one, a grown woman, a Bratva daughter. The Bratva handles its own dirty laundry. Maintaining peace between our organizations is my priority.
I try to convince myself, but it doesn’t work.
I want names. I want dates. I want whoever hurt her to look me in the eyes while I demonstrate, at length and without hurry, what broken bones feel like.
I retreat to my office and stare out the window at the lake as I down a tumbler of scotch to steady me. I should go to bed. I should call Volkov and set her return in motion. I should.
Instead, I climb the stairs again, push the bedroom door open, and quietly step inside.
The room is dim. She's on her side, the covers pulled to her chin, her pale golden hair drying loose across the pillow. Her breathing is slow, even, and deep. She’s sleeping the kind of sleep that comes when the body has been running on fumes and finally collapses.
I brush a strand of still-damp hair off her forehead. She looks younger asleep. She also looks like the single most beautiful thing that has ever been inside these walls, and I stand there taking her in.
She is a patient. A victim. A guest under your protection. She is half your age, you decrepit animal, and eleven hours ago she was cowering on the floor of a cell.
All true. All irrelevant.
Then, I do things I have never done in my life — I smooth my hand over her hair, once, barely touching. I fold her small fingers into mine and hold. I press my lips to her forehead. Once. Barely any pressure at all.
She doesn't wake.
She sleeps on, undisturbed, while I drag the armchair to her bedside and lower myself into it. I don't take my eyes off her.
Then I pull out my phone and call Gavril Volkov.
“I got her. She's safe," I tell him. "Under a doctor's care. She'll need a day or two before she can travel."
"Good." His voice is clipped, satisfied. "We'll arrange the handoff —"
"I'll bring her myself. When she's ready."
A beat of silence. "Appreciated."
I end the call. Put the phone on the arm of the chair.
Liar, something whispers in the back of my skull.
The doctor says she can go home tomorrow.
We'll see about that.