Page 136 of Ripped Veil (Ripped Bratva)

“If you’re having breaches like this, then no, it’s not!” I snap. “This is not my handwriting. A mistake that could have been easily avoided if you’d bothered to check this signature against the papers I signed when I admitted Vitya.”

“I… I…”

“You’re trying to figure out what happened?” I say, beating him to the punch.

“Well, yes, of course…”

“If you weren’t here when Vitya was discharged, then who was? Who authorized his release? And who was stupid enough to mistake a stranger for me? Hasn’t this fucking place heard of asking for identification?”

“Mr. Kovalyov, I can assure that we operate with the highest measures of security. All patients are required to be…”

His voice fades into the background. I don’t even hear him blabbing. Because it just struck me—this isn’t a breach.

It’s a fucking inside job.

Someone with reach, someone with power, someone with the money to make things happen—that’s behind this shit. And there’s only one organization that has operatives in every single place of note in the city.

“Fuck,” I growl as realization floods through me like ice water.

Pendergast gives me an odd look. “… Mr. Kovalyov?”

“Who checked Vitya out of here?” I ask. “A nurse?”

“No, of course not. Only doctors have the authority to discharge patients.”

“Then bring me the doctor who authorized Vitya’s release. Now.”

Pendergast doesn’t argue with me. He clears his seat and heads straight for the door. The moment he vacates his seat, I take it.

I notice the panicked expression on his face as he rushes out into the hallway. He’s scared. That’s a good thing. Fear is a good motivator, and I need fucking answers.

Because this proves what I’ve believed from the beginning: Astra Tyrannis hasn’t forgotten about me.

Not even close.

I pull my phone out to discover three missed calls from Matvei. He’s probably going crazy cooped up in his room, but I can’t deal with explaining anything to him right now. Especially since I don’t have any of the answers.

I put my phone on silent and look around the office. Everything’s neat and tidy. There are a bunch of patient files stacked onto tall shelves that take up an entire wall. Everything feels sterile. Aloof.

A few minutes later, Pendergast re-enters the office looking predictably terrified.

“Well?” I ask.

He approaches his own desk with increasing weariness. “Mr. Kovalyov—”

“Spare me. Just give it to me straight.”

“The staff member that signed him out—well…”

“Let me guess: they aren’t where they’re supposed to be.”

“No, sir, they’re not.”

“Round up your staff,” I order. “We’ll handle this my way.”

“Mr. Kovalyov, some are on duty and—”

“I don’t give a flying fuck. You fucked up, and now I’m here to clean up your mess, Pendergast. Have them gather in the courtyard.”

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