Page 3 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
“I told you—” He glowers and tries to argue, but I cut him off.
“First things first,” I interrupt, surprising myself with my boldness. “Your brother needs immediate attention. Let us do our jobs, and while we work, we’ll find the best surgeon available. But standing here arguing is wasting precious time.”
His blue eyes snap to mine, and then, I see it. A flicker of doubt in his eyes, as though he’s now second-guessing his strategy. Excellent. I see an opening and take it.
“If your brother loses blood, which he’s likely to, things can get way more complicated. Let’s get him the first aid treatment he needs, and then figure out the next steps, okay?”
I think I see a flash of begrudging respect in his eyes, but then again, I’m probably imagining it. A guy like that doesn’t easily accept his faults.
“If anything happens to him...” He leaves the threat hanging.
“Nothing’s going to happen to him that we can prevent,” I say firmly. “Now, let’s move.”
He gives a small nod.
Dr. Chen, to the team gathering behind us, says, “Trauma Bay One. I need a gurney outside stat.”
His eyes stay locked on mine even as the trauma bay doors swing shut behind his brother’s gurney. That look? It promises trouble. And for some infuriating reason… my pulse skips like it agrees.
Chapter 2 - Trifon
Dark, ugly blood soaks through Valentin’s shirt, and all I can hear is the rush of panic in my ears as I speed into the hospital’s emergency porch.
“Stay with me, brat,” I mutter.
“Trifon, just get help. I’ll be fine out here.” The bastard smirks, even half-conscious. Typical. Second-in-command of my empire, shot during a fight with the Zakharov scum, and still trying to prove he’s indestructible—even as his head lolls back against the seat, skin pale as fuck.
Three hours ago, Valentin and I were celebrating the signing of a new casino venture. Good vodka. Good food. Then the call came in—some of our men spotted the Zakharovs near our arms warehouse on the docks.
I should’ve sent more men. Instead, I thought Valentin and I could handle it with four others. Routine check, I told myself. We’d catch those bastards red-handed, send them back with their tails between their legs.
“It’s probably nothing,” I told him. “They wouldn’t dare.”
They dared.
It was an ambush. Six of Zakharov’s men hid inside our warehouse. They opened fire the second we stepped through the door. One of our men—dead. Two more wounded. And Valentin—shot in the gut as he dragged the others to safety.
The Zakharov family will pay for this. Every last one of them.
The tires screech as I slam the brakes right outside the ER doors. His blood’s everywhere now—soaking his shirt, the seats,dripping between my fingers where I’ve been pressing down uselessly to slow the bleeding.
He grips my hand weakly. “Go. I don’t want you to carry me in. Let the nurses do it, eh? That’s what they’re paid for,” he jokes. Even now, he jokes. But I know what this is. He’s too proud, my younger brother. Doesn’t want me to see him weak.
I hate to leave him alone, but my brother is stubborn, even as his life is leaking out of him.
“I’ll be fine,” he insists. “Go.”
I swing the door open so hard it nearly dents the ambulance beside me, but I’m on my feet.
“You can’t park here! It’s against the rules,” a security guard yells out from across the parking lot.
“Shut the fuck up,” I shout back. “My brother’s bleeding out.”
The guy stutters, stops dead, eyes wide as he takes in the blood on my hands, the tattoos snaking down my arms, the fury carved into every inch of my face.
Yeah, that’s what I thought.
I run through the ER doors, needing to find someone in charge.
