by Renee Rose
I get up, too, and walk over to her side.
Alex is sweating, talking fast, answering Nikolai. I flash a warning glance at Oleg at the same time I hook my hand around Natasha’s upper arm and haul her to her feet. “We need to have a word.”
The sudden movement beside Alex coupled with being made must cause him to completely lose his head because the asshole fires a shot from below the table, hitting Nikolai in the gut.
Natasha screams. My twin doubles over in a sickening lurch.
“Nikolai!” I roar, rage and fear fusing into an adrenaline cocktail that turns me lethal. I kick the table over, thinking to provide protection for Nikolai on the floor if Alex fires again, but Oleg’s already there, knocking Alex out with the butt of a gun.
“Oh Jesus, oh fuck,” one of the players chants as he and the rest of the players scramble to their feet and back up.
Adrian points a gun, first at Alex, then looping around the room.
“Put it away,” I order. “Get everyone out of here before the cops show. Use the back stairs. Now.”
I run to Nikolai’s side and crouch down. He’s still conscious, but he’s bleeding a lot. I throw his arm around my shoulders and struggle to bring us both to our feet.
“Don’t kill him,” I warn Oleg, who’s searching Alex’s unconscious form. Not that I have to tell him that. He doesn’t kill frivolously or without orders. “Leave him here for the Feds to take care of.” Oleg nods and helps Adrian herd the players out of the room.
Natasha’s flattened herself against the wall by the door, her green eyes wide, her face drained of color. “Wh-what happened?” she has the nerve to ask me.
“Move it. You’re coming with me,” I tell her harshly, lifting my chin toward the door.
Her fingers scramble on the handle, and then she throws the door open wide, sending a skittish glance over her shoulder as she scoots out.
“Elevator.” I say the word like a curse. Like I could punish her with the tone of my voice alone.
I can’t believe what she’s done to me.
My brother’s been shot.
All because of her. Because I trusted her.
She presses the button over and over again until the elevator arrives, and the three of us step in.
Nikolai’s steps are clumsy, and he’s heavy on my shoulder, but he’s awake, a goofy grin on his face. “I can’t believe that fucker shot me,” he mutters as the elevator door shuts. “I seriously doubt that was the procedure he learned at Quantico.”
“Why… I don’t understand,” Natasha whimpers.
“Shut up,” I snap. “Now listen to me. You are going to get on the other side of Nikolai and wrap your arm around his waist. Put your purse in front of the blood. When those doors open, you’re going to walk out with a big fucking smile on your face, like we’re all going out to eat together. Got it?”
“Yeah.” Her face is pale, and she sounds breathless. “I’ve got it.”
The doors ding and open. “So, where are we going to dinner?” Nikolai asks conversationally, his accent stronger with the pain.
I hear sirens in the distance. No doubt someone called the cops when they heard the gunshot.
“What are you in the mood for?” I walk as swiftly as I can without drawing attention to us. The moment we’re outside, I detach myself from Nikolai and go running for the Land Rover. Natasha is smart enough to keep walking as best she can, holding up Nikolai’s weight.
As soon as I get to my Mercedes SUV, I jump in and start it up, backing out and straight down the aisle until Natasha and Nikolai get close in the rearview mirror.
I stop, hop out and throw open the door to the backseat. “Get in,” I order Natasha.
She climbs in, and I help Nikolai, which is hard because he’s starting to go limp.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I mutter as I finally manage to get him in. He doesn’t stay upright on the seat, though. He spills over toward Natasha.
I yank my shirt off and ball it up. “Hold this to his wound,” I bark. I roll Nikolai a little to check his back for blood.
“Okay, the bullet went through. That’s good,” I tell Nikolai. “Hold pressure on this side, too.”
Natasha takes my shirt from me. “Do you have a first aid kit in here? With gauze? I need to pack the wound.”
I shouldn’t be surprised that Natasha would be capable in a pinch. Her mother’s a homebirth midwife, and she’s been unofficially assisting since she was a kid. I’m too angry to admire it now, though.
I reach under the front seat and pull out the med kit, opening it up. I toss the roll of gauze on the seat beside Nikolai.
“Pack it.” I send her a narrowed gaze. “He dies, you die,” I tell her flatly.
The color drains from her face, and she stares at me with wide frightened eyes. I register her fear as pain in my own body. A sick twist of my gut for being such a cock-sucker to someone I care about. Threatening her life is unforgivable. Something we won’t recover from.
But there is no we. That’s what I have to remember.
There is no we now, nor can there ever be.
“Little harsh, no?” Nikolai mumbles right before I slam the door.
3
Natasha
He dies, you die.
Dima just threatened my life. Dima, the bratva bad boy I thought was the nicest of the guys in the Kremlin. I should have listened to my mom. She tried to tell me this. These men are dangerous, and they won’t hesitate to kill anyone who threatens them.
I don’t know how I could’ve thought there was potential between us.
I steal a glance at his twin Nikolai.
He raises his brows. “He’s pissed,” he says with exaggerated awe, like he’s surprised, too. Like Dima never gets mad.
I rip open the package of gauze with trembling fingers while he holds the balled up shirt in place over his wound. Every part of me trembles—lips, chin, fingers, knees.
I’m not even sure what happened back there. Alex shot Nikolai! —that’s what happened. I quickly unravel a length of gauze and use my teeth to rip it, then move Nikolai’s hand and the combined bloody shirts—his and Dima’s—to stuff the gauze in the wound the way I learned in my training to be an EMT. Before I realized it was too much trauma for me to stomach and set my sights on becoming a naturopath instead. I repeat the action for the exit wound.
I hear the ringing of a phone coming through the speakers. Dima’s making a hands-free call through the car’s system.
“Da?”
“Nikolai’s shot,” Dima clips. “He needs a doctor and blood. Type O positive. I can donate if you can’t get any.”
“Take him to the clinic—I’ll get Blake to meet you there. What happened?” I recognize Ravil’s terse voice. He’s all-business.
In the rear-view mirror, I see a muscle in Dima’s jaw tick. “Natasha brought a fucking Fed to the game.”
A wave of ice cold washes over me, and my shaking increases five-fold. The parts of the puzzle my shocked brain hadn’t been able to fit together suddenly snap into place.
Alex is a federal agent.
He used me to get to Nikolai.
God, I am such an idiot! How could I be so stupid?
“What?” Ravil asks in disbelief. “Blayd’. So what happened?”
“He was a rookie. Spoke Russian, that’s probably why they put him on us. He panicked when he got made and took a pot-shot before we had a chance to disarm him. I told Oleg to leave him there for the Feds to deal with.”
“Is he dead?”
“No. Knocked out.”
“Why was Natasha at game?” Ravil asks, dropping the article.
Dima punches the dashboard, and I gasp at the crunch of hard plastic and the violence behind the gesture. “My fault. She asked and… I don’t know. I couldn’t say no because it was Natasha.”
“Blyad’, Dima.” Ravil sounds disgusted.
Because it was Natasha.
I flip that phrase over and over in my hea
d, trying not to run too far with it. Part of me secretly rejoices. I was right—I do mean something to him! He couldn’t refuse me the favor when I asked.
But then the twisting in the pit of my stomach tightens even more. Because that means the betrayal Dima feels over my actions must cut even deeper.
“Where is she now?”
“In the back seat with Nikolai.”
“I see. I’ll deal with her when I get there.”
Another wash of cold floods through me. I nearly pee my pants like a frightened puppy.
“No, I’ll deal with her,” Dima snaps back.
I’m not sure what either of them means by dealing with me, but it can’t be good.
It’s probably really, really bad.
I just betrayed their organization and may have gotten Nikolai killed.
Dima probably meant it when he said if Nikolai dies, I die. Oh God, if they kill me, my mother will never survive the grief.
“Who is pakhan here?” The bark in Ravil’s voice makes Dima stiffen.
“You are.”
“Indeed. Now keep a cool head for Nikolai’s sake. I will meet you there with help.”
Dima purses his lips but doesn’t answer. The call ends.
My next breath comes in on a silent sob—one of those terraced, hiccuping kinds.
“Shh,” Nikolai says softly. “Everything will be fine.” But his eyelids flutter closed.
“Wake up, wake up, wake up,” I whisper urgently, not wanting Dima to hear.
I believe Dima now. My life depends on Nikolai not dying.
Nikolai’s lashes flicker back open. “I won’t die,” he promises me. “It takes more than one cowardly bullet to put me down.”
Tears stream down my face as Dima weaves through the Chicago streets. I sit sideways on the seat, my back and arms cramping from the awkward position I maintain to keep compression on Nikolai’s wounds.
I try to catch Dima’s gaze in the rear-view mirror. “I didn’t know Alex was a Fed—I swear. I’m sorry.”
“We’ll discuss it later.” He shuts me down.
I try not to think about all the bad things that could happen. To me. To Nikolai. To my mother. Will Ravil kick us out of the Kremlin? Will they shoot me and throw my body in Lake Michigan?
It takes about twenty minutes before Dima pulls into an alleyway and shuts the vehicle off.
He climbs out of the driver’s seat and throws the back door open. When he sees Nikolai hasn’t stirred, he lunges in and reaches for the pulse at his neck.
Nikolai’s lids crack. “I’m not dead, asshole.”
“Better not be,” Dima mutters back. He scrubs a hand over his face, taking in the blood-soaked shirt and Nikolai’s limp form.
“The bleeding has slowed,” I tell him.
Dima smacks his forehead against the vehicle’s door frame. “Get out.” He beckons to me to come out his side.
I raise my brows in surprise. I thought I was supposed to be applying pressure.
“Now.”
“Okay.” I climb out, and his hands are instantly on me. His touch is quick and rough as his palms coast down my back, over the globes of my ass.
I sputter in surprise.
He follows the hem of my dress all the way around the skirt, and I finally realize what he’s doing—checking for a wire. He thinks I’m working with the Feds, too. He puts his hands inside my dress and quickly checks my panties by brushing the backs of his knuckles over the front. He doesn’t linger long enough to humiliate me, but that doesn’t stop the hot flush from flooding my neck and chest, collecting in the hollow of my throat, creeping up my neck.
I try to shove him away, but he’s immovable, still completing his check, sliding his fingers over the bodice of my dress. I’m not wearing a bra, and my stupid nipples get hard when he brushes across them.
He chokes a little on his breath. I try to hold in a whimper. He turns me around to check the back of the halter, and then he steps back. “Hand me your purse.”
I grab my purse from the floor of the back seat and hurl it at him, blinking back the heat behind the bridge of my nose. He dumps it out on the floor of the Land Rover and sorts through it, obviously still searching for some kind of bug. He takes apart my phone and swiftly examines the insides. After he puts it back together, he does something with the settings, then pockets it rather than returning it to my purse. The rest of my things, he shoves back into my purse.
A car screeches in behind us, and a man I don’t recognize jumps out. He ignores us and unlocks the door to the building and a half minute later jogs out with a spine board. “Are you Dima?” He rakes his gaze over Nikolai inside the Land Rover. I step back to make room for the board.
“Yeah,” Dima says. “This is Nikolai. I’m a blood and organ match.”
“I can see that.” They are obviously identical twins. “All right, help me get him on the board.”
Dima climbs in to take my place near Nikolai’s shoulders, and the two men heft him onto the board, then carry him into the building. I run ahead to open the door, then follow.
Another car screeches into the alley and doors slam. Ravil and Maxim enter swiftly. Neither says a word to me as they pass, but Ravil’s harsh gaze makes me shrink. I melt backward toward the door, and Ravil must sense it because he stops and turns.
“Come into the operating room, please, Natasha.”
I note the please. He’s still polite, even though his tone brooks no disobedience. But then, Ravil always did play at being refined. He hides his brotherhood tattoos under expensive dress shirts and slacks. His shoes are always shining. If not for the crude ink across his knuckles, you’d think he was born to rule a boardroom, not the Russian mob.
I follow the men into a fluorescent-lit operating room.
The building smells like antiseptic and animals, and I can hear the bark and whine of dogs down a hallway.
They put Nikolai on a stainless steel table, and the veterinarian removes the gauze. “Who packed the wounds?” he asks tersely.
“Natasha,” Dima murmurs without looking at me. It’s like he’d prefer to pretend I’m not here. I get it. He must think the absolute worst of me right now. Hell, so do I.
“Well done. Are you a medic?” the doctor asks me.
“I’ve been through EMT training.”
“Can you put a needle in?”
I close my eyes and draw a steadying breath. I’m not trained in it, but I’ve seen my mother put in IV lines. “I can try.”
I walk to Nikolai’s side.
“No, in him.” He jerks his head toward Dima. “I need his blood. The bags are in the lower right-hand cabinet over there.” He shows me with his chin, as his fingers are busy putting an IV into Nikolai’s hand.
I scurry to the cabinet and open it, dropping to my knees to find the bags. They’re for animals, so smaller than human blood bags, but basically the same. I get the needle and tubing and put the set together.
Dima just stands there, his face as pale as his brother’s as he looks on.
I find rubber gloves, the antiseptic, and a tube to tie around his arm.
“Okay, um, have a seat,” I say to Dima.
He doesn’t look at me as he pulls a chair out from the wall and sits in it. I crouch beside him, my tight cocktail dress making it all the more awkward, and I swab the area, then tie the rubber tube above his elbow.
I palpate his veins. Damn. Am I really going to do this? But the need to contribute somehow, to try to right my wrongs makes me push past my fear of screwing this up. I channel my mother’s clean, efficient movements. Her calm in the face of anything. Deftly, I slip the large needle into his vein, open the port and let the blood flow in.
“That’s good,” the vet says when he looks over. “Put the bag down by his feet so gravity will make it fill.”
I lay the blood bag on the floor and sit beside it, at Dima’s feet, hugging my knees.
The room is quiet while the vet works on Nikolai. Vaguely, I hear
him say he has to operate to repair a damaged portion of his colon.
When Dima’s blood bag is full, I close the port and remove the needle.
“Get a new needle and put it into Nikolai’s arm,” the vet instructs me, somehow able to monitor my actions at the same time he operates.
I obey, even though I’m terrified I’m going to fuck it up. When I get the needle in, I hang the bag on the IV pole and release the port. “Um. Okay, I think I did it.”
The doctor gives it a cursory glance, then refocuses on his work. “Good job. You’re a big help, Natasha.”
I make the mistake of sneaking a look at Dima and find his icy blue glower firmly resting on me.
A shiver runs through my body. Dima obviously doesn’t agree.
And I can’t decide what scares me more—anticipating what Ravil, the ruthless mafiya boss will do to me or the knowledge that I forever lost Dima’s regard.
Dima
Nikolai’s wheezing makes my own gut burn with phantom pain. We’ve always been too close, he and I. Our lives are as intertwined as vines. The bratva has a rule—no family allowed. No wives, no children. Because we all become each other’s brothers. But since Nikolai and I were already brothers, it was allowed. Nikolai had insisted we stayed as a team, and Igor allowed it.
But that was old-world bratva. Here, in the States, Ravil runs a more relaxed cell. He and Maxim both have wives. Oleg has a girlfriend. Families are allowed. Children, even. Ravil has a five-month-old in our penthouse compound.
I haven't felt this out of control since the night Alyona told me the pancreatic cancer was untreatable. The level of adrenaline running through me has not sharpened my brain, it's only muddled it. There's a wild recklessness in me that could make me do something stupid.
I've already been too harsh with Natasha. I know she's scared, but I'm too pissed to fix it. Too terrified of losing Nikolai.
He can’t die.
Especially not this way, when it's all my fault. I was thinking with my dick when I gave Natasha the location of the game. I knew it didn’t make sense, but I couldn’t tell her no. Now I could pay the ultimate price.
I stand a few feet from the table and watch Dr. Taylor, the veterinarian Ravil keeps on the payroll for this sort of situation, operate. The fact that he has to operate doesn’t bode well for Nikolai. If he pulls through, he could have permanent side effects from this. Like a colostomy bag.