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He’s awake. He’s not been smashed to pieces. I grab the doorframe to steady myself and struggle not to tip my head back from sheer relief. It’s better to pretend I wasn’t worried. That I truly believe the Belyaevs are unshakable.
Weareunshakable.
I stare at Dad’s happy, almost gleeful expression, and then at his oncologist, Doctor Webster, who’s glowering at him.
Doctor Webster clears his throat and moves toward me. “Zenya, it’s lovely to see you again, but I must ask you to remind your father that he needs to take better care of his health. He won’t listen to me.”
I press the sleeve of his shirt. “I will. Thank you for coming to the hospital in the middle of the night to check on Dad.”
“Of course. I hope I never see any of you in here again.” The oncologist flashes a final peeved look at Dad and then leaves the room.
I really hope so, too.
My stepmom, Chessa, is clinging to Dad’s hand. My siblings who are closest to me in age, Lana and Arron, are perched on each arm of the blue vinyl armchair.
I like Chessa as much as someone can like a stepmom she wishes she didn’t have to have, and I shoot her an apologetic look for being called Dad’s favorite girl. Chessa gives me a smile and a small shake of her head, telling me she doesn’t care as she clings to Dad’s hand. Chessa knows Dad loves her, and he treats her and her children from an earlier marriage with care and respect. They’ve had two children of their own since they were married five years ago, and he loves them dearly.
But I’m Dad’s eldest child, and I’m part of his world. Unlike my brothers and sisters, I know that Troian Belyaev isPakhanof the Russian mafia in this city, and quite a lot about how my family makes its money.
I don’t know everything yet because I’m sixteen, and Dad isn’t sure how much he should reveal to a teenager—and a girl, no less. There aren’t a lot of women in his line of work, but I don’t see that it matters. Bullets are just as deadly when they’re fired by a five-foot-three girl as they are a six-foot-four man.
“Where does it hurt?” I ask Dad, approaching his bed.
“I have no idea. I’m on enough morphine to make an elephant see pink elephants. I need an operation on my leg, apparently. The orthopedic surgeon says she hasn’t seen a break as bad as mine in years.” There’s pride in his voice, as if he’s thrilled he was injured doing something dangerous. Dad hasn’t been able to do anything dangerous since before his diagnosis.
“We saw the X-ray,” my younger brother, Arron, tells me with wide, shining eyes. He’s twelve years old and fascinated by everything grisly. “Dad’s bones were all smashed up. It was so cool.”
Lana, who’s fourteen, sticks her tongue out and grimaces. “I didn’t look. Gross.”
My mouth twitches as I look from Arron to Dad, who both wear the same boyish grins, though Dad’s is slightly woozy from painkillers. I haven’t seen Dad smile like this in such a long time.
“Troian’s also got a concussion. I don’t know what he was thinking, getting on a motorcycle when he’s not fully recovered from his chemotherapy,” Chessa says, and darts an angry look out the door into the corridor.
Dad glances that way too, and then lowers his voice and says, “Zenya, take Kristian home, will you? He says he’s not in pain, but you know how proud he is.”
Uncle Kristian is hurt as well? I whirl around and stare through the door at him. He’s still leaning against the wall with one shiny leather shoe propped up and his hands in his pockets, trying to appear casual, but now I look closer, I can see from the muscle ticking in his jaw and the beads of sweat on his brow that something’s wrong and he’s trying not to show it.
I raise an eyebrow at him.Are you in pain?
He lets out a short, defiant huff, as if he’s never even heard of being in pain.
Oh, yes. I know how proud my uncle is.
I kiss Dad goodnight and tell Chessa, Lana, and Arron that I’ll see them at home. Then I walk out into the corridor and stand in front of my uncle, amusement making my mouth twitch.
“A motorcycle? Dad doesn’t own a motorcycle,” I say in Russian. “Was it yours?”
He lowers his eyes and peers down his long, straight nose at me. “Net. We borrowed it from the assholes we were beating up.”
Of course they did.
“What happened tonight?”
A smirk slides over his handsome face. “Shkola.”
School. That’s code for delivering a beating to someone or a group of someones who have overstepped our boundaries.
Uncle Kristian explains in Russian how the two of them went to confront some rival gang members who were infringing on Belyaev territory. They could have sent foot soldiers instead of thePakhanand his younger brother showing up personally, but that’s what my dad and Uncle Kristian are like. Or they used to be before Dad’s diagnosis. If they can’t handle things on their own sometimes, they don’t deserve to lead.
