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Geez. And I thoughtIwas blunt.
I get out of the car reluctantly, and almost immediately, my head spins. “Shit,” I gasp, keeling forward.
Mila lunges forward to grab me before I faceplant in the gravel. I’m impressed at how sturdy she is. Not that she’s small or anything; I just didn’t expect to feel biceps flexing in those slender arms as she takes some of my weight.
“Okay, dial it back,” she croons. “Let’s go nice and slow.”
She tucks an arm around my waist, loops one of mine over her shoulders, and together, we shuffle up the drive, up the stairs, and through the front doors.
She leads me past a wall of stormy ocean paintings and into a room that overlooks an enclosed part of the garden. There’s a bed in the center of the room, a writing desk by the window, and an intricately carved wardrobe that looks like it’ll lead me to Narnia.
“Lie down,” Mila instructs me. “Dr. Baranov should be here any moment.”
She helps me onto my back. Every motion brings a fresh wave of pain, but I grit my teeth and bear it. I won’t cry out. I won’t beg for help.
Mom would want me to be strong.
I’m not on the bed five seconds before I ask the same question I asked earlier: “Who are you people?”
Her frown sharpens. She’s got a lot of her brother in her features. Her eyes are the same shape, but where his irises are a misty blue, hers are such a dark chocolate brown, they’re almost black. She also shares his square jaw and thick eyebrows, though her high cheekbones and full lips are uniquely her own.
She’s unconventionally beautiful. Still, though, there's a kind of pent-up violence inherent in her posture. Even when she’s at ease, it feels like she’s poised for attack.
“Who do you think we are?” Her head tilts to one side as she waits for me to answer. It’s just short of patronizing.
I roll my eyes before wincing at the sharp jolt of pain that skitters along my spine. “I hate people who answer questions with a question.”
“And I hate people who ask questions they already know the answers to,” she snaps back.
We glare at one another, eyes narrowed and jaws tightened. It would be a lot more impressive if I weren’t lying on a bed, soiling the sheets with blood.
“Okay,” I say at last, conceding the high ground. “We’ve established how we feel about each other. Now, how about you answer my question?”
“You’ve met my brother?”
“Unfortunately.”
Her lips don’t so much as twitch, but her eyes shimmer like she’s laughing. “He’s thepakhanof the Zakharov Bratva.”
“Pakhan? B-Bratva?” I stutter over the unfamiliar words. “Sounds… Russian.”
“Ding-ding-ding,” Mila says, touching a finger to her nose.
“Sounds a little sus, too.”
“Nothing gets past you, does it, angel?”
“Shit.” I close my eyes and try to breathe through my shock. It’s not difficult to piece things together. I’m surrounded by the Russian mob, away from my family, who may or may not be dead, and all because… oh,double shit.
“Does my sister know?”
Before she can answer—if she was ever going to answer—the door opens and the doctor walks in. I suddenly believe Mila’s story about him delivering both her and her brother, because this man looks older than time itself. His nose hairs have lived longer than I have.
His gray hair is shorn close to the scalp, and he has the tired grace of a war veteran. He places his black leather medical bag on the floor and looks at me through his round, rimmed glasses.
“Hello, my dear. What’s your name?”
He talks to me as though we’ve just been introduced at a garden party. Presumably one that wasn’t overrun by psychopaths wielding guns. “Taylor.”
