Page 57 of Tattooed Vow

“You will go back to the mansion,” he says, each word tight and low, his jaw clenching so hard I can see the muscle ticking in his cheek.

His face is a mask of ice, but his eyes burn with fury just beneath the surface. I know that look. Know better than to push him when he is like this.

The quiet that follows clings to us all the way there.

21

DIMITRI

The sterile smell of disinfectant assaults my senses as I push through the hospital's sliding doors. My polished leather shoes click against the linoleum floors, drawing glances from the few people in the waiting area. I ignore them. Let them stare. I have more pressing concerns than the fear I instill in strangers.

A weary-looking nurse with graying hair glances up from the station, her eyes narrowing with caution as they sweep over my six-foot-three frame and the tattoos peeking out beneath my shirt cuffs.

“I'm looking for Nick Parisi,” I say, forcing myself to soften my naturally harsh tone. “He was brought in with a gunshot wound to the shoulder.”

The nurse taps at her keyboard, her eyes flicking nervously to mine. “Are you family?”

“Yes. I'm his brother.” The lie slips from my tongue effortlessly. In truth, Nick and I have no connection—no shared past, no blood between us—except for Sandy. They met at the restaurant where he worked and dated until she ended their relationship afew months ago. But he isn’t over her. Not even close. He still carries a torch bright enough to blind him to danger and put his life on the line just to warn her about Morozov.

“Mr. Parisi is still in surgery,” she informs. “The doctor is removing the bullet. You can wait over there.” She gestures toward a seating area.

I nod stiffly. “How long?”

“Shouldn't be much longer. They needed to extract the bullet carefully to avoid nerve damage.”

I settle into a chair in the corner, positioning myself to see all entrances and exits. Old habits. My phone vibrates in my pocket.

Aleksandr:Any news?

I type back quickly:Still in surgery. Will update.

Aleksandr is worried, not for Nick's sake but for what this means for our operation. As thepakhan, he needs to know everything, and as his second-in-command, it is my job to obtain that information.

Time crawls. I refuse the coffee a nurse offers, instead watching the door to the surgical wing while mentally replaying the scene at the coffee shop. I'd arrived just after the shot was fired. Nick is on the ground, blood pooling beneath him. Morozov's men aim to finish the job, and Sandy freezes in horror, directly in their line of fire. My men and I had intervened just in time.

A doctor emerges through the swinging doors an hour later. “Family of Nick Parisi?”

I rise, crossing the room in long strides.

“The surgery went well,” he states. “We've removed the bullet and repaired the damaged tissue. He's lost blood but should make a full recovery with physical therapy.”

“When can I see him?”

“He's being moved to room 412. Give the nurses about twenty minutes to get him settled, then you can go up.”

I curtly thank him and return to my vigil, standing by the elevator. Exactly twenty minutes later, I step inside and press the button for the fourth floor.

Room 412 is at the end of a quiet hallway. I pause outside, schooling my features into a mask of calm, concealing the rage simmering beneath. Nick may have been trying to warn Sandy, but he had put her in danger.

I push open the door without knocking.

Nick lay propped against pillows, his left shoulder heavily bandaged, an IV dripping fluid into his arm. His face, already pale from blood loss, drained of what little color remains when he sees me.

“D-Dimitri,” he stammers, his good hand clutching the edge of his blanket. “I didn't... I wasn't...”

I close the door behind me with a soft click that sounds more threatening than if I'd slammed it.

“Nick.” My voice is low and controlled, the calm before the storm. “You're looking well for a man who nearly got himself killed.”

---