Page 6 of Merciless Bratva Soldier

I almost laugh, and the thing under the dressing takes hold of me so hard my vision goes white at the edges. Yevgeny waits it out with his hands folded.

“No laughing,” he says. “No coughing if you can help it. You’ll stay here for two nights so I can monitor you. Then you’ll go home and do nothing. No lifting. No twisting. No driving. The stitches come out in ten days, perhaps fourteen. Any fever, fresh bleeding, pain that grows instead of shrinks, call me before you call anyone else.”

“Understood.” I know better than to argue with Yevgeny.

He puts his glasses back on and studies me through them. Then he gives one satisfied nod.

“The driver,” I say. “Last night. Which end of the alley did he take?”

“The south end. As you told him.” Yevgeny stands. “Your baker gave me a better report than half the residents I’ve trained. Time of pressure, pulse, skin. She didn’t guess. She didn’t hope for a best-case scenario.”

“She isn’t my baker.” It’s the only lie I’ve told him since he walked through the door.

“No,” he says, and leaves.

I lie still and look at the ceiling, because it’s the only thing in the room that doesn’t hurt to look at.

Eleven fifty-two. She checked the clock once when she first put her hands on me, and kept the number the whole time.

Eleven layers. Buckwheat honey because the light kind tastes like nothing.

Yes. Keep talking anyway.

I’ve been afraid in front of other men, but I’ve never heard anyone admit it that plainly without breaking their focus. She was frightened but her hands didn’t move while she told me about her grandmother’s honey cake.

When she went to wash, Yevgeny’s bag was sitting beside her grandmother’s notebook, and there was blood on the bag. I had one good hand and perhaps three minutes. I used them to move the book.

I read the inside of the cover first. I’m not sorry for that.

Vera. I said it once after the car door closed. Quietly, so Yevgeny wouldn’t hear and ask me another question.

She will say my name again when she isn’t trying to keep me conscious. I’ve already decided that is non-negotiable.

Anton calls at noon. Petra, the nurse, is changing the bag on the pole beside the bed; she stays close enough to hear every word and studies the wall, determined not to hear.

“You’re alive,” Anton says.

“So I’m told.”

“Who did it?”

“One of Zorin’s men.” Gennady Zorin is a freight broker at the Port of Chicago and rapidly becoming a fucking liability. “The tall one who runs the night shift at the south yard. I asked him where the Tuesday load went. He decided the answer required a knife.”

“And?”

“He ran toward the river. I went the other way, through the rail cut. I walked six blocks and doubled back twice before I sat down. Nobody followed me into that alley.”

“You’re sure.”

“The bakery’s security light was on. I could see anyone coming down the alley. Nobody came until she opened the door.”

Anton breathes out through his nose, and I hear it. I know exactly what will follow before he speaks. “Maxim asked whether you’re finished in Chicago.”

“No. Zorin moved a full load of Tuesday’s freight through his own warehouse and billed the loss to the Perez brothers’ trucks. I can prove the warehouse. I can’t prove the rest yet.”

A pause. “The girl?”

“Her name is Vera.”