33. Via
VIA
The white ceiling is the first thing that registers, a flat, blinding square of acoustic tile that smells of industrial bleach and lavender-scented disinfectant.
I don't move. My head is resting on a stiff, paper-covered pillow, and there is a steady, rhythmic beep...
beep... beep echoing from a digital monitor somewhere near my left ear.
My throat is dry, feeling like it has been scrubbed with steel wool, and my jaw is a dull, throbbing ruin of pain.
I slowly roll my head to the side, my eyes stinging as they adjust to the bright, artificial light of the private hospital room.
I blink, my mind instantly throwing me back to the dark, misty slipway. I smell the wet wood of the pier. I smell the sharp, sulfur sting of the gunpowder, and I see the exact moment my father’s grey eyes went wide, vacant, and completely empty.
He’s gone.
My hand flies under the thin white sheet, my fingers clawing through the cotton of my hospital gown to press flat against my stomach.
My skin is cool, my lower belly feeling tight, sore, and empty of any sharp, tearing pain.
I hold my breath, my eyes closing as I wait for the physical confirmation that the fall, the blast, the chloroform, and the beating had taken the only piece of the future I have left.
Please. Just don't let the devil win this one.
The door to the room creaks open, the quiet rustle of rubber-soled shoes soft against the linoleum.
A nurse in blue scrubs steps into the room, carrying a clipboard.
She’s middle-aged, her face kind but professional, her eyes softening as she sees my hand clutching my stomach, my chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow gasps.
She sets the clipboard on the bedside table, her fingers gently reaching out to touch my arm.
"Take a deep breath, Mrs. Kovalevskiia." Her hand is warm, her voice quiet and steady as she checks the digital readout on the monitor. "You’ve been sedated for thirty-six hours. Your body is still recovering from the shock, but you need to breathe."
My fingers tighten into the sheet. "The... the baby."
The nurse reaches for a small, handheld doppler unit resting on the lower shelf of the cart, applies a cold, clear gel to the plastic probe, and presses it gently against my lower abdomen.
A second later, the room is filled with a fast, rhythmic sound of a tiny, rapid heartbeat.
It sounds like a galloping horse in the quiet room, loud, strong, and completely real.
"The fetal heart rate is one hundred and forty-five," she says, wiping the gel from my skin with a clean towel. "The obstetrician checked you yesterday while you were sleeping. There’s no internal bleeding, no signs of placental distress. The child is completely safe."
M-My baby…
I let out a long, shuddering sob that tears through my raw throat. I cover my face with my left hand, the hot tears finally spilling over my eyelashes and running down my cheeks.
"Thank God," I whisper, my voice breaking. "Thank God."
She pulls the white blanket back up to my chest, her touch gentle. "Your father was a very brave man. The guards said he stood in the line of fire."
The mention of my father makes the grief return, a heavy, suffocating pressure that locks my throat.
I look at the white ceiling, my mind tracing the creases around his eyes as he touched the mark on my neck.
He died protecting me. He spent his entire life keeping me in a gilded cage, treating me like a transaction to be managed, but when the bullets started flying, he didn't run.
He didn't use me as a shield. He took three rounds to the chest so I could draw my next breath.
I didn't even get to say goodbye. "Via?"
The voice is a small, quiet squeak near the doorway.
I turn my head quickly, my dislocated shoulder twinging with a sharp spike of pain.
Ekaterina is standing in the threshold, her face clean, her hair tied back in a neat ponytail.
She’s wearing a pair of clean grey sweatpants and a blue sweater that is slightly too big for her.
Her wrists are wrapped in clean white bandages, but she is standing on her own feet, her dark eyes wide and wet with tears.
I stretch my left hand out, my arm trembling. "Ekaterina."
She runs across the linoleum, her boots silent, and throws her arms around my neck. She buries her face in my shoulder, her body shaking. I hold her tight, my fingers locking into the wool of her sweater, my chin resting on her head as we cling to each other in the quiet room.
"I was so scared," she whispers against my neck. "They wouldn't let me in here. The guards said you needed to sleep."
"I’m fine," I say, my hand gently stroking her hair, trying to find my strength for her, trying to be the adult in this ruined world. "I’m right here, Ekaterina. I’m not going anywhere."
"They... they took your dress," she says, pulling back slightly to look at my face, her fingers touching the split lip on my jaw.
"It was covered in blood. My brother... my brother brought you in.
He was carrying you, Via. He wouldn't let the medics touch you until they had a gurney in the hallway. "
The mention of Ilya makes the room go completely still, the silence returning like a cold wave of water. I look past her shoulder at the nurse, who is suddenly very busy checking the IV lines on my cart, her face turning blank and unreadable.
"Where is he?" I ask, my voice dropping, the light tone vanishing as I look at her face.
The nurse doesn't look up from the monitor. "He is in the recovery wing, Mrs. Kovalevskiia. The doctors are monitoring his progress."
"Don't lie to me," I snap, my chin lifting as the old, stubborn sass returns, though my chest is starting to tighten with a new, terrifying dread. "I know how my husband looks when he’s fine. He doesn't let anyone 'monitor his progress' unless he’s unable to stand. Where is he?"
Ekaterina looks down at the floor, her fingers twisting the edge of her blue sweater, her lips trembling.
"WHERE IS HE?!"
The shriek tears from my throat, my body scrambling to sit up on the edge of the mattress, my IV lines taut, the tape on my hand pulling against the needle.
The nurse lunges forward to hold my shoulders, her face tight with worry.
"You need to stay in the bed, Mrs. Kovalevskiia! Your blood pressure—"
"I don't care about my blood pressure!" I shove her hands away, my bare feet hitting the cold linoleum floor as I swing my legs out of the bed.
My body is sore, my ribs screaming with pain, but the panic in my chest is a roaring fire that burns through the physical limits.
"Tell me where he is, or I’ll walk through every single door in this clinic until I find him myself. "
The nurse sighs, her shoulders dropping in a gesture of defeat. She looks at the clipboard, then back up at my face. "He just left surgery. Three hours ago."
"Surgery?" I step closer to her, my hands grabbing her blue scrubs, my face inches from hers. "What happened to him?"
"His left lung was partially collapsed," she says, her voice quiet, carrying no false comfort. "He had three crushed ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and he’d lost nearly half his blood volume before the transport team reached the dock. He survived the surgery, but... the damage was severe. He’s in a critical coma. The doctor says it’s very possible he won’t wake up. "
The world begins to spin, the yellow light of the room turning into a thick, heavy blackness that tries to drag me under.
No. "Take me to him," I whisper, my voice a dry, ragged thread.
"Via, you aren't supposed to walk," Ekaterina says, her hand touching my arm.
"I don't care," I say, my jaw set as I grab the metal pole of my IV stand and wheel it toward the door. "I’m going."
The hallway of the private clinic is silent, a long, sterile tunnel of white walls and closed doors.
The only sound is my IV wheels against the linoleum as I drag my sore body down the corridor, Ekaterina holding my arm, the nurse walking silently behind us.
Two of Ilya’s enforcers are standing outside the door at the far end of the wing, their faces tight, their eyes dropping to the floor as we approach.
They don't try to stop me. One of them reaches out, his large, scarred hand pushing the heavy door open for me.
I step into the critical care room, and the breath leaves my lungs in a violent, freezing rush.
The room is dark, the only light the blue, flickering glow of four different digital monitors.
Ilya is lying in the center of the massive bed, his giant frame looking strangely small under the white sheets and the tangled web of clear plastic tubes.
A massive ventilator is humming near his head, a thick black tube running down his throat, forcing his chest to rise and fall in a slow, mechanical cadence.
His dislocated left shoulder is wrapped in thick, heavy bandages, his chest taped tightly under a network of white gauze and drainage tubes that are drawing dark, sluggish red into a canister on the floor.
His face is pale, almost grey in the blue light, his dark hair messy and sticking to his damp forehead.
He looks... lifeless.
The cold, unyielding Pakhan who took a bullet graze and didn't even blink, is gone. In his place is a broken, silent man who is running on nothing but the electricity of the machines.
I let go of the IV stand, my knees bucking as I stumble to the side of his bed. I drop to my knees on the linoleum, my hands reaching out to grab his right hand.
It is ice-cold.
His thick, callused fingers are completely limp, resting loose in my palm, carrying none of the firm, possessive strength I’ve come to expect from him.
I hold his hand against my cheek, my tears wetting his skin, my body shaking with a violent, uncontrollable sobbing that echoes off the quiet glass of the monitors.
"Ilya..." My voice is a ragged, wet thread, my face buried in his palm. "You can't do this. You can't leave me here."
He doesn't move. The ventilator continues to hum, its mechanical rhythm the only answer in the quiet room.
"I’m pregnant," I sob, my fingers locking around his cold wrist, my eyes staring up at his pale, still face. "I’m carrying your child, Ilya. We’re going to have a baby.
You spent weeks locking me in rooms, doubling the guards, and telling me you were going to protect me, and now you’re going to sleep? It’s not fair."
I reach up with my free hand, my fingers gently brushing a dark strand of hair away from his eye, my touch lighter than it has ever been.
"I love you, you grumpy monster," I whisper, the confession dropping into the quiet room like a heavy iron weight. "I was so angry at you. I ran to the mall because I was terrified of how much I wanted to stay in your house. I was terrified of what you made me feel. But I’m done running. I’m your wife, Ilya. I’m Viallentinka Kovalevskiia. And I need you to wake up."
His chest rises and falls, but his fingers don't twitch. He stays perfectly still, a silent, grey statue in the middle of the dark room.
Ekaterina stands behind me, her hand resting flat on my shoulder, her silent tears dripping onto the sleeve of my hospital gown.
I lean my forehead against his hand, my eyes closing as I listen to the steady, rhythmic beep of his heart monitor. It’s still beating. It’s a slow, stubborn rhythm that refuses to stop, a dull reminder that the fire inside him hasn't completely gone out.
He’s fighting. He survived the bombing of his house, he survived the shipyard, and he’s going to survive this.
I stay there on my knees, holding his hand against my heart, refusing to let go of the only heat left in this ruined city.
The war is over. Mikhail is dead. The estate is in the dust.
But as I look up at his pale face through the dark, I know one thing for certain.
I’m going to stay right here until he opens his eyes.
And when he does, we’re going to rebuild our empire together.