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"I've learned in this line of work, you never know when you'll need an off-the-radar surgery room," Nat says, a hint of pride in her voice.
I nod, my respect for her growing. As she prepares her instruments, a thought lingers in the back of my mind—the people responsible for my injuries are still out there. And once I'm patched up, they'll have hell to pay.
Nat's fingers work deftly as she unbuttons my shirt, pushing it off my shoulders. Her gaze is unflinching, but I can sense her internal unease of the situation. The skin around the wound looks angry and inflamed, the crimson slash standing out starkly against my pale, tattooed skin.
Ana is by my side, her eyes filled with concern, darting between the gash and Nat's face. Her voice is tight as she finally asks the question on both our minds, "Is he going to be okay?"
Nat's eyes stay focused on the injury, her fingers gently probing the area around it. Seconds stretch into minutes. "It'sa superficial laceration," Nat finally says, breaking the silence. Seeing our blank looks, she elaborates, "Meaning it's a relatively shallow cut. It hasn't hit any major arteries or vital organs."
A wave of relief floods through me, the tight coil of worry in my chest loosening. Ana lets out a breath she probably didn't realize she was holding.
Nat continues, outlining her plan. "I'll clean the wound with antiseptic, apply some antibiotic ointment, and stitch it up to prevent infection and help it heal faster."
As she gathers the necessary materials, I can't help but notice her swift and efficient movements, confidence in every step. She smirks slightly, her eyes darting to the wound and then to mine. "You know, just because they call you 'Fists' doesn't mean that's all you should bring to a knife fight."
Despite the pain, I chuckle. Leave it to her to lighten the mood. "Duly noted," I quip back.
The sharp trill of my phone interrupts our banter. Ana pulls it out from her pocket, handing it to me after seeing Andrei's name flash across the screen. "Hey," I greet, my voice a touch strained as Nat starts cleaning the wound.
Andrei's voice is thick with concern. "Heard you got a little scratch. You alright?"
"Just a flesh wound," I respond, trying to sound lighthearted, but I can hear the edge in Andrei's voice.
"We got them," he says, pausing for effect. "The guys who ambushed you. Figured you'd want to have a little chat with them when you're up for it."
My lips curl into a predatory grin, the fire of anticipation lighting up my eyes. "Oh, most definitely," I growl, the promise of retribution in my voice.
Andrei's laughter rumbles from the other end, a sound filled with shared understanding. "Good. Rest up, big guy. We'll have our fun soon enough."
Disconnecting the call, I settle back, letting Nat work her magic. And as I feel the sting of each stitch, the image of those men, the ones who dared to hurt me and threaten Ana, fills my mind. They have no idea what's coming for them. No idea at all.
The warehouse is dimly lit, casting eerie shadows on the walls. There's a musky scent in the air, a mix of old wood and conflict. It's a familiar environment for both Andrei and me, a place where clandestine meetings are held, persuading people to talk.
Two men sit tied to chairs, a look of defiance on one, fear on the other. Andrei stands to the side, his tall, imposing figure filling the space. I step forward, standing in front of the defiant one.
"Let's get straight to it," I growl, my voice low and dangerous. "Who hired you?"
The man spits on the ground, a smirk curling his lips. "You're not going to get anything out of us."
I lock eyes with him. Then, in one swift motion, I throw a punch straight into his gut. He grunts, the wind knocked out of him, but I can see he wants to play it tough, mustering his strength. The other one looks like he's about to break any second.
Andrei joins in, leaning close to the fearful man's face. "We can make this long and painful," he whispers, his cold gaze never wavering. "Or it can be over quickly. Your choice."
The defiant one's voice is strained as he spits out, "You won't break me."
"I don't need to break you," I respond, my voice dripping with menace. "I only need to break him." I nod toward his companion, who now looks pale, sweat dripping down his brow.
The man's bravado crumbles for a second, his eyes darting toward his partner, and in that moment, I know we have them.
After another punch, and a threat from Andrei, the second man breaks. "Alright, alright," he pants, tears in his eyes. "Just stop, please."
"We were hired by the Romanians. Vasile Popescu's family," he says, voice quivering.
The name rings a bell. Vasile Popescu, the reigning champion. Ana's next and final opponent. Andrei and I exchange glances.
"Why?" I demand, wanting to hear it from his own lips.
The man gulps, wiping away sweat and tears. "They took out Viktor because he was the biggest threat. But now, with him out of the way, they're concerned about the girl."
