Page 81 of Bratva's Vow
Couldn’t.
My eyes burned as I stared at the far doors where nurses came and went. And I told myself not to think about it. Not to read into the fact that she hadn’t looked at a screen. That she hadn’t asked who I was. That whatever had crossed her mind when I said Vova’s name was probably worse than anything I was prepared for.
Moments later, a tall man in a white coat and hospital badge pushed through the double doors. His scrubs peeked beneath the hem, sleeves slightly rolled up.
“Mr. Morozov?” he asked, voice calm but clipped.
“Yes.”
“I’m Dr. Patel. I was the attending when your cousin was brought in.”
“How is he?” I didn’t have time for small talk.
Dr. Patel gave a slow nod as if bracing for his own words. “He’s alive. But he’s in critical condition.”
My jaw clenched.
“He was brought in unconscious with multiple fractures—left arm, right leg, at least two ribs, a cracked orbital bone. Blunt force trauma. Internal bleeding. We had to perform an emergency laparotomy to stop the hemorrhaging.”
“What the hell happened to him?”
“We don’t know yet. He was found in an alley behind an apartment block near the Red Line. Witnesses say he was trying to crawl toward the street.”
Something sharp twisted in my chest.
“We’ve stabilized him, but he’s in a medically induced coma while we monitor swelling around the brain. His vitals are being managed. You may not recognize him right away because of all the swelling.”
“But… is the damage permanent? Will he get better?”
“It’s too soon to tell. If he recovers, he will have a long road to rehabilitation ahead of him.”
If he recovered?
So there was a possibility he might not?
I said nothing.
Just breathed. If you could call it that.
“Would you like to see him?” the doctor asked gently.
“Yes.”
Dr. Patel motioned for me to follow, and we passed through the stark double doors and into the deeper, quieter wing of the ward. The hum of machines replaced the chaos of the waiting room. Floors were cleaner. Air was colder.
He opened the door to the ICU ward and entered Vova’s room. I stopped short of the bed.
Tubed. Bandaged. Bruised to the point of discoloration. One side of his face was swollen beyond recognition. His torso was wrapped so tight it looked like someone had tried to hold him together with gauze alone. Machines beeped in a steady rhythm, keeping him tethered to life.
My knees buckled.
This wasn’t just a beating. This was a message. A warning.
“Are you a praying man, Mr. Morozov?” Dr. Patel asked.
“There are over seven hundred million people starving in the world right now, Dr. Patel. I think God’s a little too busy for us.”
“Just trying to bring you some comfort. I’ll give you some privacy. By the way, the police should also be here to talk to you in a minute.”
