Page 2 of Born into Chaos

When Pyotr hesitates, she must start to make good on her threat because he groans a quickJesus Christand seconds later I feel him cutting my shirt off and pressing bandages against the wounds on my chest.

“You hear that?”

I take another breath, and he says, “That wheezing? That means his lung is punctured, Sveta, and who the fuck knows what else.”

Even in my current state I can hear the determination in her voice when she says, “Then you’d better get started. Aleksandr! Bring a car around! We’re moving him as soon as Pyotr stops being a pussy and finds my vein!”

I’d smile at the fire behind her words if I wasn’t slowly dying. I know Svetlana is Vitaly’s daughter and Val’s twin, but I’ve never had a reason to interact with her. I don’t pay much attention to the family members outside of guarding them. Watching Natalya is the first time they’ve ever assigned me anyone. I’ve always been an enforcer, one of the guys they send in to do all the killing. I’m guessing it’ll be the last time they change my assignment since this hasn’t ended so well. I don’t want to die as a failure, but considering I couldn’t even save my own brother, I guess it’s not too much of a surprise.

It doesn’t stop me from wanting to see her, though, to get a glimpse at the woman who’s so desperate to save my sorry ass. Pyotr slides the needle into my vein, and I barely feel it. My whole body is starting to go numb, but before I allow myself to sink back into the darkness, I use the very last of my strength to slowly peel my eyes open. Sveta’s face fills my vision. Her long, brown hair falls around me, brushing against my cheeks as she hovers over me. Whiskey-brown eyes search mine, and when she sees me staring back at her, she gives the biggest smile and starts to cry harder.

“You will not die, Vitya. Do you hear me?”

My eyes fall shut, the weight of my eyelids too damn much for me, so she leans even closer, so close I can feel her breath hitting my face when she yells, “You will not fucking die!”

I have just enough time to think that she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen before everything goes black.

The next time my eyes open, I’m in a hospital room, surrounded by wires and annoying machines that beep constantly. Every single part of my body hurts, and I’m desperate to just go back to sleep again so I can escape it. When I try to lift my arm, a nurse suddenly appears to stop me. Her face fills my vision, but instead of light-brown eyes and an impressive amount of stubbornness, I see a blonde woman with blue eyes and a not-so-friendly look on her face. She’s all business as she adjusts the wires around me and checks my vitals.

“Can you hear me, sir?”

“Yes.” My voice is raspy, my throat dry as hell, and when she grabs a glass of water, putting the straw to my lips, I gladly take a drink.

“The doctor will be in to see you soon. Can you tell me your name?”

I don’t stop drinking until the glass is empty, and when she pulls the straw back, I say, “Vitya Kozov.”

“Can you tell me what happened to you?”

“Don’t remember,” I say, knowing that’s all she or the police will be getting out of me. I’ll happily let them cart my ass off to prison before I’ll give them a single detail about the Bratva I work for. I pledged my loyalty to them, and they’ll have it until the day I die, which as luck would have it is not today.

“How long have I been here?”

She surprises the hell out of me by saying, “Three days. We had to keep you sedated after the surgery.”

When I try to move, I hiss out a breath at the sharp rush of pain and earn a very displeased look from the nurse.

“Mr. Kozov, you still have a long recovery ahead of you. It’s a miracle you’re even alive. You were stabbed three times, one of which hit your lung. A man brought you in, claiming he’d found you in an alley, but he left before the police could question him.”

“America is full of good samaritans,” I tell her, and she rolls her eyes at my tone and points to the fading bruise on the inside of my right arm.

“You had a small puncture wound in the crook of your elbow, and judging by your injuries and the amount of blood you’d lost, I’m guessing yourgood samaritandecided to do a vein-to-vein transfusion before rescuing you from the alley. We also get that a lot in America.”

Even with all the painkillers making my brain sluggish, her sarcasm isn’t lost on me.

She keeps checking me over while I remain silent. I’m just a poor guy who got stabbed in an alley. What the fuck do I know about blood transfusions?

When it’s obvious I’m not going to be appeasing her curiosity anytime soon, she huffs out a breath and says, “The doctor will be in to talk to you.” Raising a brow, she adds, “And so will the police.”

I give her a half-smile, because if she’s expecting me to piss the bed, she’s in for a disappointment. She gives me another soft grunt of disapproval and turns to leave, but I grab her wrist to stop her.

“My necklace,” I tell her. “I want it back.”

“You’ll get your things later,” she tries to tell me, but I squeeze harder, refusing to let her go until she gives me what I want.

“Now. I want it now. It’s a Russian Orthodox cross on a silver chain.”

She looks like she’s about to argue, so I say, “Bring it to me, or I will haul my injured ass out of this bed and get it myself.”

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