The thought has been heavy in my chest since she said the words. My knuckles are still sore, my ribs screaming every time I turn the steering wheel of the Aston Martin, but the pain isnothing compared to the noise in my head. I’m driving too fast, the tires kicking up wet gravel as I head toward the city, my mind looping through everything she told me in the kitchen.
Sixteen. Locked in a house in Jersey. Having her stomach sliced open by doctors who didn't care about anything but her father’s timeline.
I want to kill Boris Petrov. I want to do it slowly, with my bare hands, until he begs me to finish it. But I can't. Not yet. He has the boy, and he has the location. If I move too fast, the snake will just bite down on the one thing Irina has spent years bleeding for.
I park the car in the private lot of the hospital, my shoes heavy on the wet asphalt. The security outside Artyom’s floor is tight. Stefan and three other guards are posted by the elevator, their faces stiff, their hands resting near their waistbands. They straighten up when they see me.
"Mikhail," Stefan says, nodding.
"Any movement?" I ask.
"None. Konstantin’s men are patrolling the perimeter. It’s quiet."
"Keep it that way," I grunt, pushing past them.
The hospital suite smells like lilies, antiseptic, and cold tea. Kira is sitting on the edge of Artyom’s bed, holding a cup of water to his lips. He looks slightly better than he did yesterday, the color returning to his face, though the bandage around his head is still spotted with yellow fluid.
Kira looks up when the door clicks shut, her green eyes weary.
"He just had his medication," Kira says quietly, setting the cup down on the tray. "He’s supposed to be resting."
"I just need a minute with him, Kira," I say. My voice is too rough, too loud for the quiet room. "Alone."
Kira looks at Artyom. He gives her a small, stiff nod of his head. She lets out a soft sigh, squeezing his good hand before she stands up. She stops in front of me, her hand coming up to touch my arm.
"He’s still weak," she warns, her voice a soft, protective shield. "Don't start a fight in here."
"I’m not here to fight," I say.
She studies me for a second, then nods and walks out, the door thudding shut behind her.
I walk to the window, staring out at the gray skyline of the city. The rain is starting to smear against the glass, making the buildings look like charcoal sketches. I can hear the rhythmichum of the heart monitor behind me, the steadybeep-beep-beepthe only sign of life in the quiet room.
"You look like you're about to put your fist through a wall," Artyom rasps from the bed.
I turn around, pulling a chair closer to the mattress and dropping into it. My ribs protest, a sharp sting that makes me grunt. "It’s fucking Boris, he is squeezing Irina, that fucking bastard."
Artyom’s gray eyes narrow, his brow furrowing under the white gauze. "What?"
"Irina has been having some secret meetings, I saw she had a burner with her. I thought… I thought she was being unfaithful but… it wasn't a lover, brother," I say, leaning forward, my elbows resting on my knees. I look at my hands, my knuckles split and red. "She… she has a son."
Artyom doesn't blink. He just stares at me, his face a complete mask of indifference as he processes the information. "A son."
"Yeah. She was sixteen. Some older married bastard got her pregnant. She refused to get rid of it, so Boris locked her in a house in New Jersey until she gave birth. Then he took the baby. Forced her to sign adoption papers and told her the kid was lost to the system."
"And the father of the child?"
"Boris shot him," I say, my voice flat.
Artyom lets out a slow, shallow breath, his chest rising under the hospital gown. "And she’s been looking for him?”
"For seven years. That’s why she ran from the wedding, Artyom. She found a clinic record in Mexico and thought she could get to him before I caught her." I rub the back of my neck, the tension there tight as a cable. "Yesterday, Boris called her and threatened her for information.”
Artyom is quiet for a long time. The heart monitor keeps up its steady, boring rhythm. He looks at his cast, his fingers twitching slightly.
"What did you do?" he asks.
"I told her I’d help her find him," I say.
