Page 6 of Scarred Bratva King

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VERONICA

The sterile hum of the hospital feels less invasive as I stir, bathed in the faint warmth of morning light filtering through a set of partially closed blinds. My chest feels like it’s been trampled by a herd of elephants, and my throat is raw.

I shift my head slightly, and the movement feels monumental. My eyes flutter open. A figure stands at the foot of my bed, flipping through a chart.

“Water…” The word scrapes out, barely audible, but the nurse looks up instantly.

“You’re awake!” Her voice is warm but calm, her presence steady and reassuring. She steps closer and pours a small cup of water, pressing the edge of the straw to my lips. “Take it slow. Just a sip for now.”

The water feels like heaven, cool and soothing as it trickles down my throat. My muscles tremble as I try to sit up, but the nurse gently presses a hand to my shoulder. “Not yet. You’ve been through a lot. Let your body adjust.”

“What happened?” My voice is still weak.

The nurse sets the cup down and pulls a chair closer to the bed.

“Do you remember anything?” she asks gently. Her kind eyes meet mine, full of concern.

I close my eyes for a moment, sifting through fragments of memory. The bridge. Marco. The cold, unforgiving water. My body seizing as the river dragged me under.

My voice wavers as I whisper, “I was thrown in. My ex. Marco Gorlami. He tried to kill me.”

Her expression tightens, but she nods, her tone professional. “Do you remember anything else?”

I shake my head, the movement sluggish.

Her lips press into a thin line, but she doesn’t push. “Is there anyone we can call for you? Any family?”

My chest tightens. “My parents are dead.”

“No one else?”

“Yes. Elena Carlton. She’s engaged to Dmitri Chekov.”

“Do you know her number?”

“I always just pressed her name on my phone.” My voice cracks, and I force myself to focus. “Can you find her? Please.”

“We’ll do our best,” she promises, her voice steady. She squeezes my hand briefly before standing. “Try to rest. I’ll be back soon.”

My gaze drifts to the small window, the skyline of New York peeking through. For a moment, I get an image of a man. A strong man. Tattooed arms. Dragging me out of the water. Telling me I’ll be okay. Looking at my arm, and frowning.

A cop steps into the room, his figure cutting a sharp silhouette against the morning light. He’s middle-aged, with a face that looks like it’s seen too many long nights. His police badge glints from his belt.

“Miss…?” He pauses, his tone more wary than friendly. “Do you remember your name?”

“Bennett,” I croak, my voice still rough. “Veronica Bennett.”

The cop nods, pulling out a small notebook. “Detective Russo,” he says, sitting in the chair next to the bed. “You mind telling me what happened? Nurse says you were thrown in the river. That true?”

My pulse quickens as I try to sit up, but the lingering pain keeps me pinned. “Marco Gorlami,” I say slowly, forcing the words past the tightness in my throat. “He threw me in.”

Russo’s pen pauses mid-scribble, his eyes flicking to mine. “Marco Gorlami,” he repeats, sounding suspicious. “Are you sure about that name?”

“Yes,” I snap, the anger giving my voice strength. “I’m sure. Why?”

He exhales heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. “Miss Bennett, you need to understand something. I spoke to Marco Gorlami. He wasn’t in New York that night.”

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