Page 53 of Bound By the Bratva

Somewhere out there, my son is crying for his mother. Maybe he's calling for me too, using that word that still sounds foreign and perfect when it comes from his lips.

Batya.

I'm coming, Nikolai. And God help anyone who tries to stop me.

The speedometer climbs past ninety as we hit the main road. Moscow spreads out before us like a neon maze, ten million people going about their lives while mine falls apart at the seams.

But not for long.

Tonight, the city is going to learn what happens when you take something that belongs to Rolan Vetrov.

Tonight, someone is going to bleed.

27

ANYA

Pain wakes me before consciousness does. It starts as a dull throb across my ribs, then sharpens into something that feels like broken glass grinding against bone. My head pounds with each heartbeat, and when I reach up to touch my temple, my fingers come away sticky with dried blood that's matted into my hair.

The ceiling above me is white and sterile. Medical equipment hums somewhere to my left. The smell of antiseptic burns my nostrils, but underneath it lurks something metallic and dark that makes my stomach lurch.

Blood. My blood.

Memory crashes back in fragments. Dawn light. The south gate. Black SUV. Hands tearing Nikolai from my arms while I screamed and clawed and?—

"Nikolai." His name escapes as a broken whisper.

I try to sit up too fast and the world tilts sideways, nausea washing over me in waves. My vision goes gray at the edges and I have to grip the sides of the narrow bed to keep from collapsing back onto the pillow.

"Easy, easy." It's a woman's voice with a soft and professional tone. A nurse appears beside me, her hands gentle but firm as she helps me settle back against the raised mattress. "You've had a severe concussion. You need to move slowly."

"Where—" My throat feels like sandpaper. "Where is my son?"

The nurse's face changes, sympathy flickering across her features before she looks away. That's all the answer I need.

"You were brought in by Mr. Vetro's medic," she says instead, adjusting something on the IV stand beside my bed. "He carried you from the car. Wouldn't let anyone else touch you."

Rolan. I remember his voice cutting through the haze of pain, his hands on my shoulders. The way he demanded answers I could barely give. I remember the medic too—though not as vividly. Everything is a blur. Everything is hazy.

"Where is he now?" I ask. "Where's Rolan?"

Another flicker of something—worry, maybe fear—crosses her face. "He left immediately after finding you, dear. That was… several hours ago."

Several hours. The words hit me like a physical blow. Several hours since those men took my son, since they disappeared into the sprawling maze of Moscow with the only thing in this world that matters to me.

I throw back the thin hospital blanket and swing my legs over the side of the bed. The floor feels ice-cold against my bare feet, and standing makes my head swim, but I force myself upright. The change in position has me swaying, bracing myself on the bed railing, to which I'm grateful not to be handcuffed. I wouldn't put it past him, though…

"Ma'am, you really shouldn't?—"

"I need to find them." Each step toward the door sends fresh waves of pain through my skull, but I keep moving. "I need to help look for him."

I make it halfway down the corridor before two guards materialize in front of me. They're not rough, but they're immovable, their bodies blocking the path to the exit like a wall of muscle and Kevlar.

"Mrs. Vetrov," one of them says carefully. "You need to return to your room."

Mrs. Vetrov. The name sounds foreign and sharp in my ears. "I need to find Rolan. I need to know what's happening with Nikolai."

The guards exchange a look. "Mr. Vetrov left orders that you were to rest. He'll be in contact when there's news."

---