Page 16 of The Bratva's Forced Kidnapped Bride
“This little scratch?” He tore the sleeve off his shirt, revealing the path my wild bullet had taken, leaving a shallow furrow in his arm. “I would have bet money you were a crackshot, but I guess no one excels at everything.”
I silently fumed because I was a great shot. I’d just gotten unlucky. Surely I hadn’t aimed wide because I didn’t really want to kill him. Oh, I wanted to kill him just about more than anything else as he snickered under his breath at my stormy silence.
Another of his men came into the kitchen with a first aid kit, popping the metal box open to reveal a multitude of bandages, a stitching kit, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and sterilized gauze pads, which he unwrapped, then tossed onto the kitchen table.
The table wasn’t exactly dirty, but I instantly spied a few crumbs from breakfast near the pads. With a shrug, I looked away. What did I care if Anatoli got sepsis in the gunshot wound? I looked back when he sucked in his breath in pain. Was this guard of his just a clumsy oaf, or did he have something against his boss?
There was a box of gloves in the first aid kit, but he hadn’t put them on, and the way he was scrubbing the alcohol into the wound, it was like he wanted Anatoli to feel pain. He was definitely making the damn thing bleed more.
As much as I enjoyed seeing Anatoli squirm, one of the things I was most proud of was my special training in first aid. There was even a time when I was about ten that I dreamedabout being a nurse or even a surgeon. I was sixteen when I first removed a bullet from one of our guys, and had taken great care in stitching him up so he wouldn’t have a scar. It was offending me on a deep level watching him bumble his way around such a simple job.
At the next hiss of pain, I stood up, shoving the guard aside. Snapping on gloves, I pulled out fresh gauze and soaked it in alcohol, gently holding it against the wound.
“It’s going to hurt,” I said, after it already started hurting.
He looked at me oddly, like he wasn’t sure who I was for a second, but let me continue. When I told him it should have stitches, he only shrugged and sat stoically while I sewed him up. As I punched the needle into the skin and dragged the surgical thread through to tie off a tiny knot, the guy who’d started the job made a gagging noise and hurried out of the room.
I took a brief moment to look at Anatoli, who caught my eye. He had the same exact look of disgust I was sure I had at that cowardly display.
“He’s new,” Anatoli said with a dark scowl and a sigh. “Might not last too much longer.”
“Or you won’t if he’s ever in charge of watching your back,” I said, drawing the needle up for the last time.
I tried to think of something smart to say about giving the guy a raise, but found it was satisfying enough to see what kind of weak men he had working for him. He clearly hated it. I was overcome with curiosity because it certainly wasn’t always that way. He had to have loyal, competent people at one time or he’d never have gotten as far as he did. There was no way I’d ask, because I had a very good idea that my family was part of the reason. Probably the main reason.
After Mat caught him three months ago and handed him over to me, the rest of my cousins had rounded up as many of the people in his organization as they could, either getting rid of them or making them see the light about who they were working for. It took a hell of a lot to stay loyal to someone who wasn’t your blood when torture and death were on the horizon. Having to lay low for three months couldn’t have helped, either.
So, good. He was starting all over again with untrained men he couldn’t count on. That might certainly work in my favor. Still, it somehow didn’t seem right, like seeing a lion pacing in a zoo.
Whoa, was I feeling something akin to empathy for my captor? If so, it was only because I was patching him up, which I was only doing because… why? When I finished wrapping his arm, he raised an eyebrow at me, seeming to silently ask the very same question.
“While watching you slowly die of sepsis might be enjoyable, I’d rather kill you with my own hands.”
His eyes widened. “Try to put that thought on hold for a little while,” he said. “At least until we return from Russia.”
I blinked. “Where?”
“The country where we were both born?” he said in Russian, making my insides flip over.
I had been practicing my ass off since I was a child to perfect my English and speak without any trace of an accent, and sometimes it made me feel a little bit like a traitor. My American cousins could only muddle along in their mother tongue, and Mat and his brothers wanted to assimilate now that we were here, so I rarely heard it. I guess I missed it more than I realized.
I didn’t expect him to say anymore, because after all, what choice did I have in the matter? But he filled me in that we’d be going to Volgograd.
“To meet my family,” he sighed.
“You seem less excited than me about this.”
He rolled his eyes. “Wait and see for yourself what they’re like. Oh, and you need to act like a happy wife.” When a laugh burbled out of my throat, he got very serious. “Or else.”
Enough was enough. “Or else what?” I asked, exasperated. I still couldn’t fully feel my toes from the electric fence. “You’re already holding me captive in a place where there's no chance of escape. I know torture is on my horizon. What else could you possibly hold over my head?”
A slow smile curled his lips, and he tossed his inky black hair off his forehead as he stood and left the room. I sat there, not sure if I should follow him, curiosity warring with caution. Before curiosity won, he returned with a tablet, sat down again, and handed it to me. It was a split screen showing two maps, one of the greater Los Angeles area, and one showing parts of San Francisco and down into the Silicon Valley area.
I already didn’t like this, and liked it even less when he reached over and tapped something on the screen. Dozens of red dots appeared on the maps.
“Recognize any of those locations?” he asked. Not smug, not gloating. Just a man who knew he’d won.
My throat had closed up because I recognized all of them. Every red dot indicated one of my cousins’ businesses, both legit and related to the Bratva. Loathing welled up in me as I glared at him and nodded tersely.
