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"Good. Stay close." There's no room for softness now, not when death is breathing down our necks. But I let the edge of my worry show, just enough to remind her she's not alone.
Damien is already on his comms, his voice clipped and efficient as he calls for an extraction and a medic.
"Medic's en route," Damien confirms, snapping his phone shut. His eyes meet mine, and a silent vow passes between us. We will get Anoushka out. We will make them pay.
"Let's move," I order. Standing still is a death sentence. Lev scoops Anoushka into his arms. I wrap my arm around Robin, pulling her against me, and I feel her shiver.
"Stick to me, Robin," I whisper fiercely. "I've got you."
Damien stays back to end the fight by Ivan’s side.
Together, Lev and I rush out with the women by our sides. We jump into the waiting cars, and The Crescent Inn fades behind us, its walls echoing with the ghosts of tonight’s terrors.
Chapter 22 - Robin
I pace the sterile, too-white corridor, not knowing what else to do. Damien is still with Ivan, cleaning up the war scene. Boris and Lev are inside the operation theatre overlooking the doctor’s procedure, where Anoushka fights for her life.
I'm out here all alone, powerless, my hands shaking and cold as ice. I close my eyes and rub my forehead, trying to forget the image of Anoushka fighting for her life.
Blood. There was so much blood. Boris and I had sat with her in the backseat, our hands around her wound. I stare at my clothes and barely remember what color they were before the blood stained them red.
My mind is running in a million directions. On one hand, Anoushka is in this position because of me. If I hadn’t gone to her for that money, she would still be alive.
Now, she’s fighting to survive, and I still don’t have my brother back home safe with me. All of this was for nothing. Adam is somewhere out there, all alone and afraid. I need to find him, and there’s only one person who can help.
Uncle Craig.
But I don’t know where he is. As soon as the Zolotovs brought war to the inn, I saw him escape into the darkness. There were just so many bullets flying around, and after Anoushka had been shot, I didn’t think to ask someone to catch up with him.
I wonder what my uncle’s involvement is in all this. Had he truly been kidnapped? Or is he also a victim at the hands of the Abatos family, like me?
"Come on, come on," I mutter to myself, pulling out my phone for the umpteenth time. My thumb hammers against the screen, hitting redial with a desperation that could shatter glass. But there's no reply—just the void of unanswered rings. Uncle's silence is a heavy stone in my gut, every ignored call amplifying my fear for Adam.
Where is he? Is he scared? Is uncle punishing him because of me? Do the Abatoses have him?
My breath comes in short bursts, fogging up the screen. Adam is just a kid. He shouldn't know the weight of our messed-up world. But here we are, neck-deep in debts and threats, with me scrambling to keep us afloat.
And now this... Anoushka, the one person who doesn't deserve any of this crap, lying on some cold table because of choices I've made, because of the tangles we're all caught in.
"Damn it," I hiss, stuffing the phone back into my pocket. My gaze returns to the door, willing it to open, willing Anoushka to be okay. My nails dig crescent moons into my palms, the sting grounding me in this moment, in this fight. We're Zolotovs. Survivors. We bend, but we don't break. At least, that's what I keep telling myself.
At last, the heavy door creaks open, and the sterile scent of antiseptic assaults my senses before I even see him. Boris steps out, and I feel a chill of fear run down my spine. I brace myself for his rage, rightly deserved. He has all the reason in the world to be angry with me. I put his sister and unborn child in grave danger tonight. I’ve been lying to him about my true background, keeping secrets my mother never bothered taking to the grave.
I take a deep breath and exhale. I stand my ground, looking Boris straight in the eye. First, I need to know how she is, and then I’ll be prepared for Boris’s onslaught of deserved rage.
"Anoushka?" The name comes out as a plea, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears—small, scared.
He strides to me, his large frame dwarfing my own. Those eyes that have stared down danger without flinching now hold a storm of emotions. He doesn't speak; instead, he wraps his arms around me, and it's like being engulfed by the eye of a hurricane. Fierce, yet eerily calm.
“Anoushka made it through," he murmurs into my hair, his breath warm against my scalp. "But she’s not out of the woods yet," he pulls away.
I'm gripping his forearm, nails digging in as if I could transfer some life force from me to her. The relief is a live wire zapping through my veins, but the fear lingers, a stubborn shadow that refuses to dissipate.
"Critical?" My voice trembles, and I hate it. I hate feeling this scared. But Boris is solid beside me, an anchor in this storm of uncertainty.
"Yes, critical." His strong facade shows fissures now, lines of strain etched across his forehead.
"God, this is my fault." The confession spills out of me, a torrent of guilt I can no longer contain. Tears hot on my cheeks, I look up at him, my protector, my inadvertent husband. "Boris, it's because of me. My uncle... he said Adam was in trouble. H—he demanded money I didn’t have on behalf of some bad guys my mother owed debts to before she died, and now..." The words choke me, my regret a noose tightening around my throat.
