by K. Marie
Tears streamed down my face as I walked out into the hallway with the guards, their images just a blur when I rushed past them in a panic; not knowing what was happening. My stomach lurched suddenly, signaling I was about to be sick. Spinning in search of a bathroom, I spotted one in the corner and immediately headed that way. Rushing into the stall, I didn’t even have time to close the door behind me before I was bending over the toilet retching. I heaved until there was nothing left to pitch, all of my morning coffee making a rapid exit from my stomach. When I was finally done, I flushed the toilet and headed for the sink.
I am not handling this very well. I told myself, leaning over to rinse out my mouth and splash cold water onto my face. My hands shook as I reached for a paper towel to soak up all the water.
I wasn’t typically quick to panic, but I had never seen anything like that before. It was terrifying; Viktor laid there so helpless, and I couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it. I was afraid he was dying. What if he died and Garland wasn’t here? I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head; trying to shake away the thought. I would not go there. Pulling myself together, I inhaled a deep breath and forced my legs to exit the bathroom.
It had only been a few minutes since I’d left Viktor’s room, but it felt like an eternity when I returned to find the door still closed and what looked to be a gazillion people clustered inside. My heart sank. I needed to call Garland.
But I realized I must’ve dropped my phone in the room during my panic because I didn’t have it. I didn’t have my purse either, everything was still inside. Shit. A sense of fear engulfed me as I gazed at the tableau that was visible through the window-blinds on the door to Viktor’s room. It was a minute before my scattered brain finally kicked-in and remembered that two guards were standing a short distance away, as well as two in the waiting room. They all had phones. Presumably, with my husband’s phone number programmed into them.
Strengthening my spine, I prepared to step towards the guards when I felt a hand press down on my shoulder. Startled, I whirled around on a gasp and looked up into a familiar pair of emerald eyes. Familiar, but different, they weren’t Garland’s.
“Do you know who I am?” the man asked, thick Russian accent telling.
I nodded my head, before remembering to use my words. “Yes,” I answered, voice coming out raspy from puking and crying.
“Can you tell me what’s happening in there?” he asked gently, eyes flicking towards Viktor’s room.
I shook my head, trying to hold it together. “I-I don’t know. I was in there with him, and he was fine, then, he—his body started jerking and moving. Dr. Yanovich said he was likely having a seizure…” I explained miserably, stupid tears welling again. Dammit.
The man said something in Russian—something in a soothing tone, then surprised me when he drew me into his arms. It was strange but oddly comforting. I never pictured this being the scenario in which I’d meet my father-in-law for the first time. Me, scared stupid and crying—probably ugly-crying, at that, and Viktor laying in a hospital bed fifty feet away fighting for his life.
Yet, here he was—my father-in-law, the mobster, in the flesh. Holding me and murmuring soothing words in Russian that I couldn’t understand. If I recalled correctly, he wasn’t supposed to be here. He was sanctioned by the U.S. government and not allowed to legally enter this country.
He smelled good. It was an odd thing to think at a time like this.
“Your husband, has he gone?” he asked.
I nodded my head as I pulled back from his embrace. “Yes, it’s my fault; I made him go home to get cleaned up. He’d been here all night and looked terrible, I told him I’d sit with Viktor,” I explained.
“You made him go? And he listened?” My father-in-law questioned with a hint of amusement in his voice. “You’ve done something I’ve not been able to accomplish since he was a boy,” he stated matter-of-factly.
I gawked at him uncertainly, not knowing whether he was pleased or displeased by that fact. “He listens sometimes—and others, well, your son has a serious problem with authority,” I offered with a shrug, mustering a watery smile.
“That, he does. However, a smart man always listens to his wife, and I know my son to be a smart man,” he replied, returning my smile.
I was struck by his and Garland’s likeness. They both had the same smile, the same eyes, nose, the same height, and general size. Liev Vidov’s hair was a mix of dark and silver—not quite salt and pepper, there was less salt, and he was handsome, though not as handsome as his son. He was essentially Garland in another twenty years.
Before either of us could say another word, we both snapped to attention at the sound behind me. Several people came pouring out of Viktor’s room, Dr. Yanovich among them. He walked over to where we were standing.
“He is again stabilized. With the trauma suffered and such great loss of blood, the body experiences a significant amount of shock; hypovolemic shock. It isn’t uncommon to have any number of reactions so soon after. His blood pressure is low but in an acceptable range, and all other vitals look good for now,” he reported.
“What would you say his prognosis was at this point?” asked my father-in-law.
Dr. Yanovich hesitated, looking from me to him; clearly confused as to who he was. “Speak freely, doctor, after all, I’m the man who’s paying you,” said Liev, in a tone that sounded eerily like his son’s.
Dr. Yanovich nodded his head in understanding.
“It’s difficult to make an accurate prognosis at this stage, but I’m optimistic. Viktor managed to survive a wound that is most often fatal, and he’s remained overall stable the past twelve hours. He’s medically sedated for now—and I’d like for him to remain so for at least forty-eight hours. After that time, as long as he responds favorably, I will discontinue the sedation and reassess his prognosis. I know it is difficult, but for now, it’s really a waiting game,” Yanovich provided.
“Thank you, doctor. May I see him now?” Daddy Mobster asked politely.
At Dr. Yanovich’s okay, my father-in-law went in to see Viktor. I remained out in the hallway to give them some privacy, though honestly, I wasn’t so sure I was even ready to go back in there just yet.
Folding my arms across my chest as I leaned against the wall, I took a minute to study the two men that had accompanied my father-in-law. The bodyguards were apparently from the same stock as our new Russian ones. They were intense and scary, and lived up to every stereotype I could’ve ever imagined for a mafia bodyguard.
Not Garland’s father, though, he didn’t fit my mental stereo-typical image of a mobster. I had seen him before, of course—we’d facetimed when Roman was born, and I had seen a photo of him. He was different in person. I would never have guessed him to be who or what he is. My father-in-law looked like any other older businessman in a suit. Liev Vidov had to be in his early sixties, but he was attractive and as magnetic and compelling as his son. That apple didn’t fall far from the tree at all.
My attention was pulled away by the sound of footsteps behind me. When I turned my head, I breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of both Garland and Joe. Rushing over to them, I threw my arms around my husband and told him what happened.
Twenty-Seven
G A R L A N D
I wasn’t all that surprised, I should have expected it. Romanovich was a lot of things, but a shitty, uncaring father has never been one of them. He wasn’t perfect—and I might have disapproved of the way he’d handled things with Viktor all these years, but he’s always looked out for him. Even if he didn’t acknowledge him as a son, he treated him like one.
“Let’s pray the entirety of the Justice Department won’t be converging on this hospital anytime soon,” I remarked, as soon as Camry had gathered her things and bid us both goodbye.
“Not in its entirety, I’m sure,” my father returned sarcastically.
“Camry told me what happened…” I said, eyes shifting to Viktor lying in bed a few fee
t away. He looked the exact same as when I’d left.
“He’s a Vidov, we’re nothing if not determined; he’ll survive this,” Romanovich asserted with confidence.
I turned my head to look at him, not so sure I was feeling his assuredness. He gazed back at me, eyes tired, but resolute. If sheer will and determination were all that was needed to move mountains, he’d have moved many by now.
“I was supposed to protect him,” I murmured, feeling the rush of anger return. Viktor was there at my behest last night; the guilt has been eating away at me.
“Is this where I pull out the violin?” Romanovich asked bitingly, eyes hardening. “Viktor is no longer a boy; you insult him as a man to suggest he is incapable of protecting himself. You were both taught the same—you know the risks, dangerous games can sometimes have deadly consequences,” he admonished.
When I said nothing, he continued.
“Despite the disaster of last night and my son-,” he started, then paused mid-sentence, having apparently made a Freudian slip.
I glared at him disapprovingly. He seemed unsure of which term he wanted to use to describe Viktor today. Son? Nephew? Who knows.
“Despite Viktor’s current condition, it appears you’ve been busy. I received an interesting phone call when I got off the plane a short while ago,” my father continued, eyes drilling into mine.
I stared back at him defiantly, not giving a shit about his disapproval. A tense silence ensued, and I could all but hear his rebuke. Making executive decisions without his stamp of approval was akin to a cardinal sin. I understood that the politics involved sometimes required it, but, hell, I was no stranger to disregarding such courtesies. I’d let him deal with the fucking politics.
“Molodets, syn,” he spoke after a moment, surprising me.
Well done, son. It was the opposite of what I expected, but I’d take it.
“Not that I approve of your complete disrespect for observing processes. However, a powerful statement is sometimes necessary. I will deal with the noise back home, you ensure it’s dealt with here.” An order, not a suggestion.
I nodded my agreement.
My father and I may not always agree, but I respected his position, I knew that anything I did reflected on him. To those who mattered, there was no differentiating between the two of us. I was his son, his second—albeit an absent one, my actions were considered his. Anytime there was a strike on any vital organization, it was first discussed and approved. I’d eliminated that process. I wasn’t worried, my father’s organization was more significant and far more powerful than the Ostrovsky’s, and I was ready to go to war with anyone who disapproved of my actions.
“I’m not sure how long I’ll stay…” Romanovich said; voice laced with hesitance as he gazed down at Viktor. “But, I’d like to see my grandson before I go.”
Camry had extended the invitation before she left. However, I didn’t think he would be sticking around long enough to accept. Sneaking into the country was both risky and time sensitive. No one landed in the United States without the government eventually finding out who it was. If he got arrested here, there was no extraditing him back to Russia. That he’d take that risk spoke of his worry.
“I’ll meet you at the airfield,” I told him, conveying my own worry. The sooner he left, the better.
My father regarded me a moment before reluctantly agreeing. After leaning forward to place a kiss on Viktor’s cheek, he instructed, “Take care of him, son, notify me as soon as he’s awake.” That said, he promptly exited the room.
A man’s conscience, if he possessed one, could be a hell of a thing to wrestle with. My father has fought with his for thirty-two years now. The day I learned Viktor was my brother, was the day I inherited part of that burden.
When I called Romanovich on my cell phone after breaking uncle Luka’s neck that day, I was in a panic. Viktor was bleeding, his mother, Oksana, was screaming and crying—whether it was for her son or her husband, I wasn’t sure, and I was scared shitless. By the time my father arrived, I had wrapped Viktor’s hand as best I could to stop the bleeding, but the shirt I’d used was soaked. His mother; not the sharpest tool in the box on her best day, was a complete mess and of no help.
Romanovich took charge, ordering Oksana to take Viktor to the hospital, Boris—one of his byki, took my car home, and I was ordered to keep my mouth shut while my father dealt with the police. I sat on the stairs of the porch going over everything that happened—nervous as hell; expecting to be arrested at any moment, though, it never came. When it was all over, I sat there gazing at my father in traumatized confusion.
“Why would he do that—why would he try to kill his own son?” I asked in bewilderment, struggling to comprehend something so fucked-up.
“Partly, because Luka was under the influence of alcohol, but mostly, because he knows Viktor isn’t his son.”
* * *
“What are you talking about—what do mean? I don’t understand.”
* * *
“Luka resented Viktor; it’s why he treated him so cruelly, he knew he wasn’t the boy’s biological father.”
* * *
“Was he adopted or something?”
* * *
“No, Viktor was not adopted.”
* * *
“Then, who is his father?”
* * *
“I am Viktor’s biological father, he is your brother.”
* * *
“No, you’re lying! You have to be—that makes no sense!”
* * *
“I know that it’s difficult for you to understand, and I hope that you can someday forgive me. But, I do not lie to you, it is true.”
* * *
“That’s disgusting if it’s true—how could you?! You actually had sex with Luka’s wife?”
* * *
“Something that I am not proud of, I assure you. Every man will do at least one thing in his life that he truly regrets, and that is my one thing.”
* * *
“My mother, does she know about this?”
* * *
“No, son, no one knows but Oksana and me, and now you.
* * *
“That’s so messed up—I’m so fucking confused right now. Why are you telling me this? I really wish you hadn’t!”
* * *
“I’m telling you this because I believe it’s important for you to know. I intended to tell you when I thought you were old enough to understand, today is that day.”
* * *
“I really don’t want to hear this!”
* * *
“Listen anyway, son, because taking a man’s life has consequences. It takes away your innocence and stamps a black mark on your soul. I want you to understand that if ever you decide to take a life, you’d better believe in your heart that you have the justification to do so. Protecting your family is always reason enough. You protected your family today—your brother, you saved his life. And had you not already killed Luka, I certainly would have.”
* * *
“So, what, am I to just go on pretending—acting as if all of this is normal, that it didn’t happen? Am I to keep pretending Viktor is my cousin? And what about mother, will you tell her?”
* * *
“Your mother can never know, son, it would break her heart—send her to an early grave. I don’t believe she would ever be able to overcome what happened here today, nor my past transgressions.”
* * *
“Do you ever intend to tell Viktor you’re his father? Or does he spend the rest of his life believing I murdered his father?”
* * *
“Viktor can never know. It is a burden that I will always have to bear for my sins…that we’ll both have to bear. But, you deserve to know that you have a brother; that you’re not alone in this world. Brothers look out for each other; not all of us are like Luka. I spent years trying to make amends for my transgressions by aiding him and helping to support his family, trying not to
interfere when he mistreated Viktor. Luka was simply a bad seed. I knew he would one day meet his end, only, I thought that it would be by my hands, not yours. And for that, son, I am sorry.”
My uncle Luka’s death was ruled an accident. According to the police report, his broken neck was a result of him falling off the porch while intoxicated.
Luka had always been a mean-spirited thug. He’d found himself landed in jail countless times because of his drunken recklessness. It was never for very long, sometimes a few days, or maybe a few weeks. However, it was on the occasion in which he received a prison sentence of four months that Romanovich knocked-up Luka’s wife.
Oksana, Luka’s wife and Viktor’s mother, had appealed to my father for financial support. She and Luka had one daughter, Renata, and my uncle was their sole provider. Oksana was apparently offering something in return for that support—and my father, who had a wife back in the States recovering from her third miscarriage, found himself in a weakened state and took her up on her offer.
They both agreed to keep it a secret. And even as dumb as my uncle Luka was, he knew how to do basic math. He never admitted publicly that he knew Viktor was not his son, but privately, both Oksana and Viktor paid the price. Poor Viktor never understood why the man he believed to be his father hated him.