by Denise Wells
That’s not good.
But it’s also not dead.
I get back in my car and race toward Mercy Hospital, dialing Alyssa’s number as I go.
I relay everything I know to her and instruct her to watch out for any additional information that goes through the wires. Once upon a time I was Daria’s emergency contact on her medical records. Hopefully that hasn’t changed.
If it has, I’ll just flash my badge and say we’re married or some shit. Whatever I need to do to make sure I’m by her side as soon as humanly possible.
It’s another four hours in the waiting room before anyone comes up to update me on Daria. It didn’t matter how many times I asked, and whether it was in an FBI capacity or a family member, they didn’t give me any information until they were damn good and ready to.
“Mr. Limonov?” the doctor asks. I want to ask him if there is any part of me that looks Russian, but I also don’t want to be a dick. I really don’t care at this point what name he calls me as long as I get information about Daria, but I correct him anyway.
“It’s Murphy, but yes. How is she? Daria Limonov?”
“She’s stable, but pretty banged up. We’ve got her in the ICU now. She was in surgery to correct a small amount of internal bleeding. She has a concussion that I want to monitor, a fractured rib causing minor pneumothorax, and she fractured her right wrist. Beyond that, it’s just contusions and abrasions, several of them, but mild, given the circumstances.”
“When can I see her?”
“She should be waking up soon, I’ll have the nurse come and get you.”
“Can I sit with her in the meantime?”
“I don’t see why not. Follow me. I’ll show you to her room.”
I’m not prepared for Daria’s condition, even though the doctor warned me. I’ve seen people in all sorts of states of injury before, hell I’ve been injured myself a million different ways. It physically hurts to see the woman that I love reduced to a lump in a bed with tubes and wires everywhere; her nose, her chest, her arms. Plus, a cast on one hand, bandages over her head, and bruises on every inch of skin visible to my eye.
I know that bruises often appear worse than they are, but how Daria looks only stands to reinforce in my brain that I could have lost her today. I’m not okay with that. I can’t be without her. My life won’t work if she isn’t in it.
I sit by her bedside, willing her to wake. I know she needs to rest, that’s imperative to her healing process. But I need to see her eyes, hear her voice, make sure for myself that she really is okay. I grip her free hand in mine, careful not to jostle the IV, and kiss each of her fingers. Needing some kind of contact with her whether she realizes that I’m here.
Evening turns to night, which cycles into day, and I’ve yet to see my baby’s beautiful eyes. I need to know she will be okay, and the only way to know is to see it for myself. So, I start talking to her, telling her all the things that might freak her the fuck out because she’d say I was moving too fast, but I don’t care. She scared the shit out of me yesterday, and I have some things I’d like to get off my chest.
“What were you doing yesterday, baby? Huh?” I smooth her hair back from her face, still somewhat sticky from blood and sweat. They cleaned her the best they could but definitely didn’t get everything. I know she will want a shower first chance she gets.
“Why were you at Turgenev’s? You scared me, Daria. I can’t lose you. You can’t just go off half-cocked doing these things on your own. That’s what I’m here for, baby. You gotta go take some scumbag out, you call me. I’ll help you.”
It occurs to me right then I mean what I’m saying. I would much rather ensure Daria's safety, no matter what she’s doing, then continue my career in the FBI. It wasn’t even my idea to join. They recruited me out of the service. I know I’ve got skills that are unique and useful in criminal apprehension, but goddamn, the hoops we have to jump through to do it is ridiculous.
I’d rather follow in Daria’s footsteps and just take these scumbags out myself.
Oh shit.
Do I mean that? Or am I suffering from sleep deprivation after spending the entire night in this fucking chair?
Do I really want to go from agent to vigilante?
How would I deal with the immorality?
Maybe that’s easier than I think it will be. I mean, I don’t fault Daria or her girls for it. I can figure out a way to not fault myself either.
How would I make a living? That’s really the question. I have savings, but not enough to not have to work again. That would mean retirement, and that’s a whole different gig.
I take a deep breath and let my thoughts simmer for just a minute, realizing that I am okay with this idea. It wasn’t just a whim because I’m afraid of losing Daria. I would have no problem leaving the FBI. Would I have felt this way if today hadn’t happened? If I wasn’t sitting here next to Daria in the ICU? Hard to say. This wasn’t really an idea I’d entertained before.
But now it’s different.
Daria in the hospital make it so.
“I’m in, baby. All fucking in. I’m leaving the FBI and joining your team. Not for a paycheck, just to make sure this doesn’t happen to you again. I’ll figure something else out for the paycheck because I have to support you in the manner you’ve become accustomed. Not that I’ll ever be as rich as you. But I can afford a nice house, I can save for our kids to go to college, I can give us a good life.”
Her hand twitches in mine, I wait to see if she opens her eyes. But am met with disappointment.
“Am I freaking you out, Daria? You aren’t even conscious and you’re twitching about getting married.” I laugh, mostly to myself. It’s funny and not funny at the same time. I want Daria, and I want us to share our future. I know she’s wary of such connections and commitments. But I’m going to take her at her word when she told me on the Maldives trip that she was ready to try again.
“I’ll open a security business. Something similar to what I told you I did when we first met. I’ll do that during the day and help you at night. And when we have kids, we’ll figure it out. I’m thinking three is a good number. Two boys and one girl. The girl will be the youngest so that her older brothers can help me protect her. And chase all the boys away.”
“No protection,” Daria mumbles weakly.
I smile big. That’s my girl. I had a feeling if I started planning our future she’d have something to say about it, conscious or not.
I lean in, putting my ear close to her mouth. “What’s that, babe?”
“My daughter,” she rasps. “Protects herself.”
I chuckle and kiss her lightly on her chapped lips. Her breathing is labored, and she wheezes slightly with each inhale and exhale. I pick up the glass of water near the bed and bring the straw to her lips.
“Not too much. Just wet your mouth a bit. You’re recovering from surgery—you got pretty banged up.”
She takes a small sip and winces. “Why?”
“Well, you’ve got a concussion, a punctured lung, broken wrist, fractured rib, and a fuck-ton of scrapes and bruises.”
She nods, her head barely moving. “Hurts.”
“I know, baby. Let me ring for the nurse, we’ll see if we can’t get you something more for the pain.”
“No.” Daria attempts to lift her good arm to stop me, but I do it anyway. “Clear head.”
“How about we go for a clear head in a couple days, and right now, we go for pain reduction and rest?”
She nods, her eyes drifting shut once again. My girl is a fighter. I’m proud of her. And I’m so fucking thankful that she’s okay. There are so many other things that could have gone wrong yesterday. How the hell do I protect her from that shit?
The nurse pokes her head in, in response to my call, and gives Daria a shot of something in her IV after I explain that she’s in pain.
“She won’t be feeling much of anything now,” the nurse smiles and turns back toward us before stepping through the doorway.
“I almost forgot. Her brother is outside. Shall I send him in?”
I nod in response.
What the hell is her brother doing here?
How would he even know that she’s in the hospital?
Maybe he came to town with her dad? If he did, Daria didn’t mention it. Unless she doesn’t know. I brace myself for the introductions, I may know all about her family, but we’ve never met. And I don’t think they know much about me. Based on pictures I’ve seen, Daria and her brother could have been twins, especially since they are only separated in age by eleven months.
I stand as the door opens slowly, not entirely sure what to expect. The man that enters is not her brother.
11
Ronan
I’m still not sure what I plan to say to Daria to convince her to work with me. But it doesn’t matter much when I have her friend in my possession. Daria doesn’t know that I won’t hurt the girl. And I plan to use that to my advantage.
I tell the attendant at the hospital’s front desk that I am Daria’s brother and they direct me to the correct wing and floor. I’m stopped at the nurses’ station to identify myself a second time and asked to wait a moment. The nurse disappears into the room I’m assuming is Daria’s, returning a few moments later to tell me I can see her now.
I was not expecting the man to be with her, a foolish oversight on my part. Of course he is with her, he loves her. The sentiment bleeds from his every pore whenever she is near. He stands as I enter. Though I’ve watched him from afar, we’ve not had the opportunity to meet in person.
He’s larger than I expected.
A second mistake.
I won’t make another.
He’s not the mammoth size of Andrei, but he has a few inches in height and several pounds of muscle on me. And I’m not a small man.
I close the door softly after I’ve entered.
“You’re not her brother. Who the fuck are you?” the man demands, his hand immediately going to his gun at his waistband.
I hold my own up in a surrender posture. “Ronan Sinclair. I mean no harm. I need to speak with Daria. Saying I was her brother seemed the simplest way to go about it.”
Daria’s eyes snap open, a strangled noise emits from her chest as she tries to sit up.
The man growls at me, his gaze darting back and forth between Daria on the bed and me in the doorway. I keep my hands up. “I just need a moment of your time. I know the timing isn’t ideal. I have information on your friend, Quinn.”
That gets both of their attention.
The man looks to Daria for direction. She nods slightly; he resumes his seat next to her bed and motions for me to take a seat on the small couch on the other side of the room.
“Make it fast,” he demands.
Daria whispers something in his direction and he helps her to sit up slightly, positioning pillows behind her and raising the head of the bed. She winces as she moves. I can only imagine the pain she’s in.
Her arm is in a cast and her body appears to be one large bruise, but she looks coherent enough for my purposes. “I need your help.” I start with my main request, figuring we can work our way backward from there.
“What have you done to Quinn?” she croaks.
“She is safe. For now. And I will return her to you after you and your girls help me.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’ll get her back, anyway. I don’t need to help you. And my girls definitely don’t need to be anywhere near you.”
The man growls at me again.
I need a new tactic.
“I don’t believe we’ve formally met.” I stand and amble toward him, staying vigilant, my hand outstretched.
He stands and does the same. “Mack Murphy.” He squeezes my hand unnecessarily hard. I don’t blame him, were our roles reversed, I would do the same.
I remain standing at the end of Daria’s bed and turn to her, my gaze beseeching. “Would it surprise you to know that I am not the one involved in the trafficking of women?”
She makes a noise that sounds a lot like a scoff.
“On my honor, Daria, I am not.” I hold her gaze, and her eyes widen slightly. She looks to Mack, who has been studying me. He nods almost imperceptibly, and she looks back to me, waiting for me to continue.
“I have a rat. He’s been conducting a lot of business in my name without my knowledge. Business I would not ordinarily associate myself with. I’d like your help to exterminate my rat.”
“Why not just do it yourself? Or are you the kind who doesn’t like to get their hands dirty?” Mack all but sneers as he asks.
“Oh, I have no problem taking him out myself. In fact, I’d like Daria’s girls to capture him and then let me take care of the rest. I have a lot of ideas as to how I want to extinguish his life. Slowly.”
“Why not just capture him yourself?” Mack persists.
Daria is still watching me. Whether to see what I’ll do or if I’m telling the truth, I’m not sure.
“Because, as is often the case with a rat, they travel in packs and I have no way of knowing who to trust any longer. I could very well use my men to catch my rat and they could all turn on me. I need someone I can trust.”
“And you trust me?” Daria asks.
“No. But I trust that you don’t wish any harm to come to your friend.”
“And if I storm your place and get my friend anyway?”
“Then you’ll never know who killed Katya.” I play my trump card and watch as the intended effect transpires. Daria’s gaze snaps to Mack’s and the two communicate non-verbally. Somehow having an entire conversation and making decisions without the use of words as though I’m not even there.
“We’ll need to think about it,” Mack says at last.
“Of course,” I say. “Shall I check back with you?”
“We’ll call you,” Mack adds.
I nod and leave the room. While the conversation didn’t go exactly as I thought I would, it still ended better than I could have hoped. I’ve shown my weakness. She doesn’t seem to be able to take unnecessary advantage of it. And if I’m reading the situation correctly, I think they’ll help me.
It’s difficult for a man like me to acknowledge weakness. Especially not weakness in their organization. I can only surmise that Andrei has spent too much time in America and forgotten his place in the syndicate. Failed to remember the natural hierarchy of our roles. That he ever thought he could get the better of me proves how unintelligent he is.
While I will miss his companionship, it will be nice to wipe the slate clean. Show the remaining men that I am still in control. Because if anything scares men into submission, it’s mortality. And when I’m through with Andrei, I will have convinced every last one of my men of their own mortality and how fragile it is.
I hit the call button in the elevator bay and immediately use the auto dispenser for hand sanitizer next to it. Hospitals are hotbeds of germs and contagions; two things I abhor. I don’t consider myself a germaphobe, but I appreciate cleanliness.
The elevator doors open to reveal three women—a brunette, a redhead, and a blonde. It’s like the setup for a raunchy joke. I step aside to let them pass, doing nothing to hide my interest in their appearances, as all are beautiful in their own right.
The brunette keeps her eyes downcast. The blonde storms past me as though I don’t exist. But the redhead, she stops and does a slow perusal of my body as I do the same to her. Our eyes meet for a moment and I feel a jolt of energy surge through me. Something akin to lust but stronger, surprising me.
I enter the elevator and turn to watch her ass as she leaves. She surprises me by spinning to walk backward, keeping her own gaze on me. The blonde backhands her on the upper arm and the redhead pivots back forward, but not before winking and blowing me an exaggerated kiss.
I’m still chuckling as the elevator doors close and take me back to the ground level where my driver waits.
12
Reed
The room
we’re meeting in is dingy and dark, not what I expected from these rich Russian guys. I’ve heard stories of how wealthy these oligarchs are, but I’ve yet to see evidence of it outside of the limousine Viktor Limonov picked me up in.
Viktor wants me to spy on Ronan Sinclair, but he hasn’t shown his face yet. So, I’m stuck trailing this Andrei Turgenev guy who has got to be the biggest idiot I’ve ever met. And if Sinclair’s right-hand man is an idiot, then I’m guessing Sinclair is too. Case in point, they’ve let me into their organization with nothing more than Viktor Limonov saying he wanted me for himself. And then “allowing” Andrei to poach me. Now, here I am sitting in on this pointless as fuck, so-called meeting.
These guys have been going on for twenty minutes about some girl that Turgenev recently picked up. Apparently, she’s American and hot; therefore, everyone wants to fuck her, but apparently Sinclair has forbidden it. Turgenev is trying to figure out a way to go behind his back. Part of me wants to put a stop to the conversation by telling them all to just go fuck the girl if that’s what they’re wont to do.
But their accents are strong, and I can’t quite tell if this woman is here willingly or not. The last thing I ever want is to involve myself in an assault, knowingly or not. So, I sit back and follow the parts of the conversation that I can and nod and smile at the parts that I can’t.
Turgenev makes no secret that the whole lot of them kidnap women and sell them into prostitution and slavery. The blatant disregard they hold for the female race is astounding. I want to ask how they would feel if it were their mother or sister being taken and sold, but I also don’t want to get my ass kicked or my head blown off. Turgenev has a short fuse; it doesn’t take much to set him off.
Today, anything involving Sinclair seems to make him angry. One guy mentioned it’s because Sinclair is in town. As near as I can tell, Turgenev does not have a lot of respect for Sinclair. At the very least, he does not speak highly of him. Which I find odd since everything Turgenev does is in Sinclair’s name: murder, blackmail, trafficking drugs, and selling women—it doesn’t seem to matter. And the reason is that Sinclair’s name carries weight; Turgenev’s doesn’t.