Page 80 of Bratva's Vow
Nine missed calls.
Three I’d rejected.
And a voice mail.
My chest tightened into a lead weight of guilt already sinking deeper with every passing second.
I should’ve answered.
The whole day, I’d been obsessed with finding Wren. I’d ignored every call that wasn’t related to him. I retrieved my voice mail, clenching my hand into a fist at how the robotic voice seemed to deliberately taunt me.
“Maxim…” Vova spoke shakily, breathless as he rattled off the words in Russian. “I-I think someone’s following me. I tried to lose him, but… I don’t know. It feels off. Please call me back, cousin. I don’t like this.”
The message ended, and I stared blankly ahead, the blood roaring in my ears louder than the engine.
Fuck.
Vova, you’ve got to be okay.
We were all each other had. Two rejects from the same family. When I first came to the US, Vova was the one who’d taken me in, and I never forgot all he’d done for me. He never asked for anything in return either and had been pissed at first when I bought the mall where his salon was after the owner threatened to close the building and sell.
If anything happened to him, how could I forgive myself for not being there for him?
“Let me off right here,” I said when we arrived at the hospital and drove by the entrance.
“But, Maxim?—”
“It’s Vova, Sergei. Just come and find me.”
I didn't wait for him to come to a full stop but jumped out of the car and rushed through the entrance. I headed straight for the nurse at the information desk.
“My cousin Vladimir Morozov was admitted,” I said, my breath slightly ragged. “I got a call to come in.”
She didn’t ask who I was. Didn’t check the screen.
Her eyes changed. Just slightly.
A flicker of something passed over her face—recognition,sympathy, maybe. She’d seen many patients today. Phones ringing. Beds wheeled in. Trauma after trauma.
But she remembered Vova. Off the top of her head.
That couldn’t be good.
She picked up her pager and pressed the call button. “The attending doctor will be right with you.”
“How is Vova doing?” I asked. “Is it serious?”
She paused. Not long, but long enough to tighten something in my chest. Long enough for the pause to be the answer.
“The doctor will explain,” she said, her voice soft but rehearsed. “You will be able to see him after.”
But alive or dead?
I wasn’t brave enough to ask.
She nodded toward the row of cold metal chairs bolted to the wall. “You can have a seat.”
I didn’t sit.
