Page 82 of Bratva Daddy
But ECT was scheduled for eight in the morning. I needed to buy time, create a delay, something to push the procedure past whenever those sirens would start.
That night, I played the perfect patient. Took my pills from the night nurse with practiced compliance, tucking them under my tongue while I sipped water, nodding when she checked my mouth with a penlight. The moment she left, I spat them into my palm—two Haldol, one Ativan, three of something I didn't recognize.
In the bathroom, I didn't palm them like usual. These went straight into the toilet, flushed away with evidence of my non-compliance. If they tested my blood tomorrow, they'd know I hadn't been taking anything, but tomorrow might be too late anyway.
I checked my stash behind the loose tile—my own personal poison collection. Enough to cause serious problems if taken all at once.
The plan formed like words on a page, clear and inevitable. I’d pretend to take all the pills. Leave the caplets as evidence. I’d tell them I’d overdosed, and they'd have to stabilize me before they could run electricity through my brain. And somewhere in that chaos, when those sirens started, I'd find my way to freedom.
I tucked the pills back behind the tile except for six—enough to dissolve in water for the appearance of a suicide attempt withoutthe full commitment. Those I hid in the hem of my pillowcase, ready for morning's performance.
Back in bed, I stared at those seventeen water stains and thought about Alexei's voice, rough with exhaustion but certain. "Daddy's coming," he'd said, and despite everything—the psychiatric ward, the planned ECT, my father's suffocating control—I believed him.
The Pakhan of the Volkov bratva had promised to come for me, and Alexei Volkov kept his promises.
Fiveforty-threeAMaccordingto the ancient clock above my door, its red numbers bleeding into the pre-dawn darkness like a wound. The morning shift would arrive in seventeen minutes, their sneakers squeaking on industrial linoleum, their voices carrying discussions of weekend plans and patient assignments. At six-fifteen, someone would check on the woman scheduled for ECT at eight. They'd find their compliant patient in crisis.
I worked quickly but carefully, aware that desperation could ruin the performance. First, the pills from behind the loose tile—handfuls of medication they'd thought was coursing through my bloodstream, keeping me docile and confused. I scattered most across the floor near my bed, like I'd dropped them in haste or weakness. Several went on the nightstand, a few crushed into powder as if I'd been trying to make them easier to swallow.
Six pills went into the paper cup of water by my bed, dissolving into cloudy bitterness. I drank half, enough to stain my lips and tongue, enough that they'd smell it on my breath. The rest I poured down my chin, letting it soak into the thin hospital gown. The fabric clung to my skin, cold and medicinal.
The hardest part was making myself vomit. But three days of hospital food and anxiety had left my stomach ready to revolt at the slightest provocation. I thought about the gray meat from last night's dinner, the way it had smelled like formaldehyde and disappointment. My stomach clenched, and I bent over the small trash bin, bringing up bile and the dissolved medication in a convincing display of overdose.
I left the bin where they'd see it, evidence of my body rejecting the poison I'd fed it. Then I arranged myself on the floor by the door—not dramatically sprawled but crumpled, like I'd been trying to get help before collapsing. One hand stretched toward the door handle, the other clutching my stomach. My hair fell across my face, hiding the calculation in my eyes.
Six-oh-two. I could hear footsteps in the hallway now, the morning shift taking over from night nurses who'd been counting down to escape. Someone laughed at something—probably Marco, the orderly who always had a joke about the Knicks losing. Normal morning sounds that were about to become chaos.
"Morning rounds," someone called out. "Henderson, you take the east wing. I'll check on our ECT patient."
Footsteps approaching my door. The magnetic lock disengaging. Light from the hallway spilling across my carefully staged scene.
"Check on Petrov—" The voice cut off mid-word. Then, sharp and loud: "Oh my God! She's OD'ing! Get the crash cart!"
I kept my breathing shallow, erratic. The nurse—Patricia, I recognized her voice—dropped to her knees beside me, fingers finding my pulse while she shouted for backup.
"How many did she take?" Patricia's hands moved over me, checking pupils, feeling for fever. "Where did she even get these?"
More footsteps, running now. The crash cart's wheels squeaking as someone sprinted with it. Dr. Harrison's voice cutting through the chaos: "What the hell happened here?"
"Overdose," Patricia reported, still checking my vitals. "Looks like she's been hoarding meds. There must be three days worth, maybe more."
"She's been compliant," another nurse protested. "I watched her take them every dose—"
"Clearly, you didn’t," Dr. Harrison said, and I heard the fear under his professional tone. A patient overdosing before a scheduled procedure would trigger reviews, investigations, questions about supervision and protocol.
"We need to move her to medical," someone decided—Dr. Patel, the attending physician who actually seemed to care about patients as people. "Cancel ECT. She's too unstable for anesthesia right now."
"Get a gurney," Dr. Harrison snapped. "Start IV fluids, push Narcan just in case there are opioids involved. Someone call her father—"
"I'll do it," Patricia said, but her tone suggested she'd rather eat glass.
They transferred me to the gurney with surprising gentleness, Patricia holding my head steady while two orderlies lifted my body. The IV went in smooth—Patricia had good hands, found the vein on the first try even with my arm limp as overcooked pasta.
"Baby, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand," Patricia whispered, and I almost did because she sounded genuinely worried. But unconscious people didn't respond to requests, so I stayed limp, let them wheel me through hallways that smelled like disinfectant and despair.
The medical wing was different—brighter lights, better equipment, windows that actually opened more than two inches.They transferred me to a bed with real sheets instead of plastic-covered mattresses, hooked me to monitors that tracked everything from heart rate to oxygen saturation.
"How did this happen?" The voice that cut through the medical chatter was sharp with fury, and my body tensed involuntarily before I forced it back to limpness. Viktor had arrived, and he was beyond angry—he was scared. "She was supposed to be monitored! She was supposed to be watched every moment!"
