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“Give me the phone.”
Dmitri places it in my free hand. Vera Markova’s photograph fills the screen, her dark hair pulled away from her face and her clear green eyes looking directly at the camera. She’s thirty-one, a trauma surgeon, and she doesn’t have a criminal record or any known Bratva ties.
A red notice flashes across the top of the file.
BLACKLIST ENTRY ACTIVE. OWNERSHIP UNASSIGNED. TRANSFER AUTHORIZED.
The registration was filed thirty-seven minutes ago. I read it again. The entry is real.
They hadn’t merely searched for the surgeon who saved me. They’d marked Vera Markova for removal.
3
VERA
Alexei Orlov has been alive for five days straight, and I’m still not convinced he’s forgiven me for it.
The thought is ridiculous because he’s awake, alert, and perfectly capable of speaking. He answers my medical questions in clipped sentences and complains about every restriction placed on him.
He hasn’t thanked me for restarting his heart, though I doubt gratitude ranks high on Alexei Orlov’s list of urgent concerns. For now, he watches me as if I’m another security problem he hasn’t solved yet, while men with guns watch me check his pupils as if I might finish what the bullets started.
Marina steps into the corridor behind me and lets the door close. When the guard beside it shifts, his coat opens enough to reveal the pistol at his waist. She moves away so quickly that her shoulder bumps mine.
“You could ask them to stop staring,” she mutters once we’re far enough away.
“I could also insert a fork into an electrical socket.”
“I think the socket would be friendlier.”
“Has anyone told you why they’ve turned the damn hospital into a war zone?”
“No.”
“You could ask.”
“I enjoy having all my fingers.”
“You restarted his heart.”
“That’s my specialty.” I’d have ended this conversation already if Marina’s ruthless efficiency hadn’t earned her more patience than most people get.
“You called him an arrogant bastard while your hand was inside his chest.”
“I was motivating him.”
Her mouth twitches, but the worry stays in her eyes. “Vera, men like that don’t forget doctors who save them.”
Men like Alexei don’t forget anything. That was part of the attraction four years ago. He watched me as if he were recording every answer for later, and I liked having all that attention aimed at me. I didn’t know later would become a positive pregnancy test, a child with gray-green eyes, and years spent checking unfamiliar cars before unlocking my front door.
“I don’t need gratitude,” I say. “I need him to survive long enough to become someone else’s problem.”
“Do you believe that?”
“No, but I’m exhausted, and it doesn’t matter.”
It’s a lie, but I’m too tired to make it convincing.
I’ve showered twice a day since the surgery, changed into clean clothes, filed every report, answered questions from the administration, and traced a missing vial through three signatures and one very nervous pharmacist. None of it has removed the sense of Alexei’s blood beneath my nails.
