Page 8 of Warlord’s Empire

“She’s alive,” he said to her, then to his second-in-command. “Take care of it.”

Nuani would know what he meant. Get rid of the bodies, pay off the kitchen staff, find the Russian’s driver, find the hotel security. But there would be no explanation good enough to explain how Saskia ended up in the hotel’s basement with two assailants.

“I’ve got you,” Radik said to her, though she couldn’t hear him.

Another of his employees, Shola, followed him out into the loading dock where his vehicle was parked. She opened the car door and he slid into the back, arranging Saskia on his lap.

Gazing down at her, he couldn’t help but bask in the moment, despite her injuries. He’d only ever touched her once, years ago, to remove her headphones. They hadn’t spoken, though he often listened in on her conversations either through the cameras he’d had installed in her apartment, or the phone he had bugged.

Whether she knew it or not, he was always with her. And a damn good thing he was nearby and watching. His obsession with the young Koba woman was what led him to her this evening.

He’d planned on finally approaching Saskia while she was in Pretoria, perhaps asking her out for an evening. It seemed ridiculous now, the idea that the youngest member of a well-known mafia family and he, a mercenary warlord, might go on something as simple as a date.

What the fuck happened to her?

She should have been safe. Taken care of by her family. And by Radik, who always had eyes on her. He’d failed her and that was something he took seriously. He would find out exactly what happened and why.

Saskia made a sound and he tightened his arms around her. “Faster,” he told the driver.

The car sped through the downtown core until they reached Radik’s apartment building. His car door was opened for him and he slid out, his hold on Saskia firm.

Shola opened the building door and cleared a path to the elevator, giving the concierge a look that suggested he keep any comments to himself. Shola’s death stare was something to behold.

In the elevator, Shola punched the button for the penthouse suite. “Doctor Smith has arrived and is waiting to see the patient.” She kept her eyes carefully averted.

Radik stepped out of the elevator, greeting the doctor, a man he trusted and respected. “Zander. She’s been unconscious for twenty minutes. She took at least one blow to the head and one to the ribs.”

Shola rushed ahead as Radik strode through the suite, opening the door to the bedroom where Radik lay Saskia on the bed. She looked so fragile on his oversized king bed.

“She was attacked?” Zander asked, sitting next to Saskia as he checked her pulse and breathing.

Radik had to stifle the urge to snarl at the doctor for touching his woman, his protective instincts hammering at him. It was necessary, he reminded himself, before saying, “Yes, two assailants.” He smiled grimly. “She injured one and killed the other.” Technically, Radik killed them both, but the one with the severed artery would have died if Radik hadn’t finished him.

“She’s strong then,” Zander said approvingly. “That’s good. She’ll need to be to survive life with you.”

Besides a handful of loyal employees, only Zander knew the true extent of Radik’s obsession, knew of his plans to bring Saskia to his home and keep her there as his partner, and hopefully one day his wife. Zander and Radik met 20 years ago in a refugee tent on the Chad-Sudan border after Radik had been shot.

Zander had treated him without asking questions, though it was clear he disapproved of Radik being in the area, having pegged him as a mercenary. After learning that Radik had been distributing aid to villages cut off during the border skirmishes, he’d thawed. The two became close friends over the years, Zander never hesitating when Radik needed his medical expertise.

“Will she be okay?” Radik asked.

“She has bruising here.” Zander moved her wild curls aside, gently brushing his fingers across her cheek and temple. “She may have a concussion, but we won’t know the extent of the damage until she wakes up.”

“You’ll stay.” It wasn’t a question.

“Of course.” Zander stood, moving back from the bed.

“Can you wake her?” Radik asked, taking Zander’s place next to her. He picked up her limp hand and stroked the soft skin.

“It’s best to let her come around on her own,” Zander said, heading toward the door. “I’ll be in the other room. Call me when she wakes up.”

“What happens if she doesn’t wake up?” Radik asked before Zander could leave.

The doctor paused, and without turning to look at him, said, “Then I imagine you will hunt down every person involved in her death and make them wish they’d never heard of her.”

Zander’s answer was a punch to the chest, stealing Radik’s breath. Not the part about hunting down the people involved in Saskia’s attack; that would be happening regardless of the outcome, but the lack of reassurance. Ordinarily, it was what Radik liked best about his friend. He always told the blunt truth as he saw it, but this time, Radik needed reassurance and what he got instead was the door closing softly behind the retreating doctor.

“You will not die,” Radik commanded Saskia. He brushed his fingers over her cheek, frowning at the darkening bruise on her cheekbone. “You will wake up.”