"Stay with me, brother," I whisper. "Don't you dare leave me."
The drive to the Morozovs’ private hospital wing is a blur of red lights and the smell of ozone. Every time Lev takes a turn too fast, Artyom groans, and I feel a fresh surge of fury. This was an assassination attempt. They tried to take the head of the family.
We pull up to the emergency entrance. A team of medics is already there, their faces pale as they see the state of the SUV. They pull Artyom out, their movements clinical and fast.
I follow them through the doors, my boots tracking ash onto the white tiles. I don't stop until they push me back from the operating theater doors.
"Sir, you can't come in here," a nurse says, her hand on my chest.
"He’s my brother," I growl, looking down at her. I probably look like a demon—covered in soot, blood, and the raw energy of a man who just survived an inferno.
"I know, Mr. Morozov. But you need to let us work. Please."
I stay at the doors, staring at the small window as they move Artyom onto a table. I see the heart monitor's erratic spikes. I see the way they’re cutting his suit off—the suit he probably spent three thousand dollars on just this morning.
I walk to the waiting area and collapse into a chair, my head in my hands. The ringing in my ears is finally fading, replaced by a cold, calculating rage. They hit us. They hit us where it hurt, and they did it when we were vulnerable.
I pull my phone out. The screen is cracked, but it still lights up. I have one message to send. One man who knows the shadows of this city better than anyone else.
I type out the text with shaking fingers.
Meet me at the hospital. Tomorrow. 0800. We’re at war.
I hit send. I know Konstantin Belov won’t ask me any unnecessary questions. It’s what I like most about him. He’ll be here.
I lean my head back against the wall, watching the blood from my forehead drip onto my knee. Artyom is alive. We are still standing. But the peace is over.
They wanted a war? They’ve got one. I’m the Madman. And I’m going to make sure the only thing left of my enemies is the ash under my boots.
But first, I have to make sure my brother wakes up.
I close my eyes, the image of the explosion still burning in my retinas.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The movie on the television is some mindless romantic comedy, I’m still in my black leggings and the compression top from my run, my sneakers kicked off near the coffee table. I’ve been sitting here for hours, staring at the screen but seeing nothing but Boris’s face and hearing his words.
My skin feels itchy, like I’ve been doused in something caustic. Every time the house groans, I jump. Every time I hear a guard’s boots on the gravel outside, I think it’s Mikhail coming back to tell me he knows everything. I think about the way he kissed me this morning. I think about the oil on his hands and the softness in his voice.
He’s going to kill me. If he doesn't kill me, he’ll throw me out. And then I’ll lose everything.
The front door slams downstairs. It’s a heavy, violent sound that vibrates through the floorboards. My heart tries to kick its wayout of my ribs. I stand up, my hands trembling as I smoothing my leggings.
Mikhail walks into the suite a minute later.
I freeze. He looks like he’s been through a literal war. His white shirt is torn at the shoulder, stained with soot and grease and dark, drying blood. There’s an ugly, purple bruise flowering across his jaw, and a jagged cut over his eyebrow that’s still weeping red. He smells like smoke—acrid, chemical, and overwhelming.
"Mikhail!” I breathe, taking a step toward him.
He doesn't look at me at first. He just heads straight for the dresser, his movements stiff and awkward. He looks like every step is an insult to his nervous system.
"What happened? You look… Gospodi, Mikhail, you’re bleeding."
"It’s nothing," he grunts. His voice is a rough rasp, like he’s swallowed a handful of glass. "An accident at the factory. A pipe burst."
"A pipe doesn't do that to a man's face," I snap, the terror rising in my throat. I walk over and grab his arm, stopping him before he can reach for a clean shirt. "You’re bruised and covered in ash. Don't lie to me."
He looks down at me, his blue eyes dark and rimmed with red. He looks wild, untethered. "I said it’s fine,dorogaya. Go back to your movie."
