Chapter 36
ANDREY
The floor is cold and hard against my back, and for a disorienting second, I don't know where I am or what happened. Then the pain in my shoulder flares hot and sharp, dragging me fully back to consciousness, and I remember.
I passed out.
Like some weak fucking civilian who can't handle a little blood.
Shame burns through me, hotter than the bullet wound. I've been shot before. Stabbed. Beaten until my ribs cracked. I've endured brutal interrogations, and I never once lost consciousness. But tonight, in front of Mariya, I went down like a goddamn amateur.
"Andrey!" Her voice cuts through the fog in my head, panicked and breathless. "Oh, God, someone call an ambulance!"
I force my eyes open and find her leaning over me, her beautiful face pale with worry.
Her hands hover near my shoulders like she wants to touch me but is afraid she'll hurt me worse.
Those green eyes are wide and terrified, and despite the humiliation burning in my chest, something warm spreads through me at the sight of her concern.
She cares. She's worried about me.
"I'm fine," I manage, my voice rougher than I intend.
"You're not fine! You're covered in blood and you passed out!" Her hands finally land on my chest, pressing gently like she's checking to make sure I'm real. "You need a hospital."
"No hospital." I push myself up onto my elbows, ignoring the way the room spins slightly. The movement sends fresh pain shooting through my shoulder, but I grit my teeth and force myself to sit up completely. "I'm fine, Mariya. It was just a second."
"You hit the floor hard enough that everyone within a block probably heard it!" She's practically yelling now, her fear transforming into anger. "You could have a concussion. You could—"
"I don't have a concussion." I reach up with my good hand and cup her face, my thumb brushing across her cheekbone. Her skin is soft and warm, and the contact grounds me more than anything else could. "I promise. I'm okay."
She doesn't look convinced, but she stops arguing. Her hands move to my shoulders, carefully avoiding the wound, and she helps me get to my feet. The world tilts dangerously for a moment, but I lock my knees and force myself to stay upright.
I will not pass out again. Not in front of her.
My men have the surviving attackers on their knees in a line, hands zip-tied behind their backs.
Blood stains the floor around them, dark pools spreading from the bodies of their dead companions.
There are five left alive, all of them staring at the ground with the kind of resignation that comes from knowing you're fucked.
I press my hand against the wound in my shoulder, feeling warm blood seep between my fingers. The pressure helps, but I know I need medical attention soon. Still, this can't wait.
Mariya stays close to my side as I walk toward the kneeling men, her presence both comforting and distracting. I can feel her eyes on me, watching for any sign that I might collapse again. It makes me stand straighter, move with more confidence than I actually feel.
I stop in front of the first man, a thick-shouldered bastard with a broken nose and blood running down his chin. He doesn't look up when I approach.
"You have two choices," I say, my voice carrying across the warehouse. "Join my family, swear loyalty to me, and live. Or refuse and die right here."
The man's head snaps up, his eyes wide with surprise. He wasn't expecting mercy. None of them were.
"I…" He swallows hard, his gaze darting to his companions. "I'll join. I swear loyalty."
"Good." I move to the next man, a younger guy who can't be more than twenty-five. "And you?"
"I'll join," he says immediately, his voice shaking. "Whatever you want. I'll do it."
One by one, they all make the same choice. Not surprising. Most men will choose life over death when given the option, especially when death is staring them in the face with a gun.
By the time I finish with the last one, my vision is starting to blur at the edges.
I've lost more blood than I thought, and the adrenaline that kept me going is fading fast. But I don't let it show.
I turn to my second-in-command and give him instructions for processing the new recruits, then finally allow Mariya to guide me toward the SUV.
The drive back to the estate passes in a haze. Mariya sits pressed against my good side, her hand resting on my thigh like she's afraid I'll disappear if she's not touching me. I want to tell her I'm fine, that she doesn't need to worry, but the words stick in my throat.
Because the truth is, I like having her worry about me. I like the way she keeps glancing at my face, checking to make sure I'm still conscious. I like the protective fury in her eyes when she looks at my shoulder.
I love that she cares.
By the time we reach the estate, my shirt is soaked with blood, and my shoulder throbs with every heartbeat. The on-call doctor is already waiting when we arrive, summoned by one of my men during the drive. He's a thin, nervous man in his fifties who's been patching up Bratva soldiers for decades.
Mariya refuses to leave my side as the doctor leads us to one of the guest rooms. She hovers near the bed while I strip off my ruined shirt, her eyes tracking every movement.
When the doctor starts cleaning the wound, she moves even closer, watching him with narrowed eyes like she doesn't trust him not to fuck it up.
The sight is so absurd, so unexpectedly protective, that I start laughing.
Both the doctor and Mariya turn to stare at me with identical expressions of concern. The doctor's hands pause mid-motion, a blood-soaked gauze pad held in the air.
"Are you feeling dizzy?" the doctor asks carefully. "Lightheaded?"
"Do you need to lie down?" Mariya adds, her hand going to my forehead like she's checking for a fever.
I laugh harder, which makes my shoulder scream in protest, but I can't stop. They think I'm delirious. They think the blood loss has scrambled my brain. But really, I'm just amused by the image of Mariya glaring at a doctor like he's a threat.
"I'm fine," I manage between laughs. "It's just… you look like you're about to attack him if he makes one wrong move."
Mariya's cheeks flush pink, but she doesn't back down. "I'm making sure he does it right."
"He's been doing this for twenty years, solnyshko."
"I don't care. I'm watching."
The doctor wisely keeps his mouth shut and returns to his work. The bullet went clean through, which is good news. He cleans and bandages the wound with efficient movements, then gives me instructions for care and a prescription for antibiotics.
"No strenuous activity for at least a week," he says firmly. "And if you develop a fever or the wound shows signs of infection, call me immediately."
I nod, already planning to ignore most of that advice. A week of rest isn't an option when I'm running a criminal empire.
When the doctor finally leaves, Mariya tries to force me toward the bedroom. "You need to sleep. You lost a lot of blood."
"I need to decompress first." I catch her hand and pull her toward the library instead. "Come with me."
She wants to argue, I can see it in her eyes. But something in my expression must convince her because she follows without protest.
The library is quiet and dark, lit only by the moonlight streaming through the tall windows. I sink into one of the leather chairs near the fireplace and pull Mariya down onto my lap, careful not to jostle my injured shoulder.
"Andrey—"
"Just sit with me," I murmur against her hair. "Please."
She relaxes against my chest, her head tucked under my chin. For several minutes, we just sit in comfortable silence. My hand traces lazy patterns on her back, and I feel the tension slowly drain from her body.
"Are you okay?" I ask. "Did they hurt you?"
"No." Her voice is soft, almost fragile. "They didn't have time. You got there before…"
She doesn't finish the sentence, but she doesn't need to. I can guess what Anatoly had planned for her. The thought makes rage burn hot in my chest, and I'm glad the bastard is dead. I only wish I could kill him again, slower this time.
"Tell me what happened," I say quietly. "From the beginning."
Mariya takes a shaky breath and starts talking. She explains how Anatoly had been planning this for weeks.
"He wanted to kill you and marry me." She grimaced. "The bastard said our bloodlines would make excellent babies."
The rage in my chest intensifies, burning hotter than the pain in my shoulder. "I'm glad he's dead."
"Me too." She shifts slightly, turning so she can look up at my face. "How did you find me? I didn't think anyone knew where I was."
The question brings back the memory of the phone call, and I frown slightly. "Someone called me and gave me the location of the warehouse."
"Who?"
"I don't know. The number was blocked." I run my hand through her hair, enjoying the silky feel of it between my fingers. "But whoever it was knew exactly where you were and wanted me to find you."
Mariya is quiet for a moment, processing this. "That doesn't make sense. Why would someone help us?"
"I don't know." But even as I say it, something nags at the back of my mind. Something about that phone call that I didn't notice at the time.
The voice.
I'd been so focused on the information, on getting to Mariya before it was too late, that I hadn't paid attention to who was speaking. But now, sitting here in the quiet library with her safe in my arms, the memory surfaces with crystal clarity.
The voice had been familiar. Older, rougher, but unmistakable.
My entire body goes rigid as the realization hits me.
"Andrey?" Mariya sits up, her gray eyes searching my face. "What's wrong?"
I stare at her, my mind racing through the implications. It doesn't make sense. It can't be right. But I know what I heard.
"The person who called me," I say slowly, my voice tight. "I recognized the voice."
"Who was it?"
I meet her eyes, seeing my own shock reflected back at me.
"It was Yegor. Your father."