Page 79 of Mafia Prince's Secret Baby

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IGOR

“Are you sure she’s okay to go home?” I ask the doctor, my voice sharper than intended. I can’t help it—this doesn’t feel like enough. “Shouldn’t we do another round of tests before letting her leave?”

The man shakes his head, calm and composed in a way that grates on me. “There is nothing else to do,” he says, his tone patient but firm. “What she really needs is rest. Her injuries weren’t severe, just painful. She’ll recover faster at home, in a comfortable bed, surrounded by people who care about her—not in a hospital where everything feels cold and foreign.”

I nod curtly, even though it doesn’t sit right. “Thank you, Doctor,” I mutter, already moving toward Katya’s side.

She looks small, fragile. Two things Katya Volkova has never been.

“Here we go,volchitsa,” I say softly, crouching beside her. “Let’s get you dressed, and then Konstantin will take us home.”

She nods, but the motion is weak, and when she tries to get out of the bed, a flinch ripples through her frame. I’m there in an instant, my hands steadying her as she shifts her weight. I lift hergently, careful not to cause her any additional pain, and settle her into the wheelchair.

The sight of her like this—bandaged, pale, hurting—sends a fresh wave of rage coursing through me. My jaw tightens as I shrug off my jacket and drape it over her lap, tucking it around her to keep her warm.

Turning to the nurse, I focus on the next task. “How many painkillers can she take?”

She explains the brand and dosage details and then says, “Make sure she gets plenty of rest, and bring her in for another checkup in two weeks.”

She hands me a folder with Katya’s discharge papers. I take it without a word, tucking it under my arm as I wheel Katya out of the room.

When we pass through the hospital’s double doors, Konstantin is already there, waiting for us. His dark eyes scan Katya from head to toe, lingering on the bandages peeking out from under the jacket. There’s a flicker of restrained anger in his gaze. But his face remains impassive.

“Car’s ready,” he says with a nod, stepping aside to let us pass.

The ride home is quiet.

The silence feels heavy and loaded, pressing down on all of us. There are so many things I want to say, so many things I need to say. But now isn’t the time. Everything about this moment feels fragile, delicate, like a thin sheet of ice that could crack under too much weight.

“Sofiya and Damien?” Katya asks, breaking the silence, her voice barely above a whisper.

“They’re at my parents’ house with Aleks,” I say. “We’re still staying there. For the time being.”

Her lips press into a thin line, and she stares out the window, her fingers fidgeting with the fabric of the jacket covering her lap.

“We’re safe there, yes?”

I glance at her, inhaling sharply. “I promise.”

She sighs, her shoulders slumping as she nods, but the tension in her body is still palpable.

Her hand keeps twisting the edge of the jacket, her bandaged fingers pulling at the seams. The urge to touch her, to ground her, becomes unbearable. I reach over, covering her hand with mine, my palm enveloping her small, delicate wrist.

“Everything will be alright,” I vow, even though helplessness burns like fire in my chest.

She doesn’t respond, but the stiffness in her body softens ever so slightly. Her shoulders relax, and the harsh lines around her mouth ease.

But seeing her worn down and bruised makes something primal and feral boil to the surface. I clench my jaw, my teeth grinding together as my mind conjures images of the men who did this to her. I imagine their faces twisted in pain, their blood staining my hands as I make them suffer for every mark they left on her skin.

The SUV idles in the driveway for a moment before Konstantin steps out and opens the door. His face is a mask, cold and professional, but I know him too well to miss the fire burning beneath it. He’s just as angry as I am, and I know he’s already prepared to do whatever it takes to find those bastards.

“Lean on me,” I say softly, helping Katya out of the car.

We move slowly toward the house, her steps unsteady as I guide her inside. Her hand rests lightly on my arm, her touch featherlight, and it takes everything in me not to scoop her up and carry her the rest of the way.

When we reach my bedroom, I help her sit on the edge of the bed, drawing the curtains closed to dim the harsh light.

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