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It's not easy to see him like this. And, knowing my brother, this level of vulnerability isn’t easy for him, either.
I meet his concern with a tight-lipped nod, offering an unspoken acknowledgment of the danger I’m stepping into. “I know, Vitya. But we need this.Ineed this.”
“Dammit, Anastasia…” he mutters, his voice trailing into a resigned sigh. A hand lifts weakly to rub at his temple, skin pallid and eyes marked with lingering pain. “You've always been headstrong. Too damn much for your own good.”
I close the distance between us, my hand reaching out to encase his, a silent vow wrapped within my fingers. “We're all we've got, Viktor. And I can’t—I won’t—stand by while you fight our battles alone.”
His hand twitches in mine, a subtle, vulnerable concession that speaks louder than words. “Who did this to you?” I ask, my voice unwavering, eyes scanning his battered form.
Viktor's eyes cloud with frustration. “Don’t know. Six of them, at least. Hit me from behind like the damn cowards they are.”
"Cowards," I echo, feeling a simmering anger bubbling within, threatening to spill over.
Samuil, his broad form leaning against the hospital wall, rumbles in agreement. “We handle this ourselves. No police.”
I nod, my resolve hardening. We are Bratva—law and retribution are ours to mete out, a brutal justice carved from necessity and survival.
My brother, even in his battered state, recognizes the vengeance in my gaze. “Stasya, promise me you’ll be careful. These bastards play dirty.”
“Like Samuil said, what’s done is done,” I reply, parroting the stoic reassurance offered to us moments ago.
A heavy silence settles over the room, each of us bound by unspoken understanding and unvoiced fears. Viktor says something unintelligible as his eyes drift shut, a soft, weary surrender to the painkillers coursing through his veins.
I watch him, every breath a silent prayer, each exhale an unvoiced plea for strength and retribution.
“We find them,” Samuil speaks, his voice a gravelly promise in the quiet of the room. “We find them, and we make them pay.”
I nod, tearing my gaze from Viktor to meet Samuil’s eyes, finding within them a mirrored ferocity, a shared understanding of the revenge we now seek.
“They won’t see us coming,” I whisper, my voice a shadowy vow that slips through the room, entwining with the beeping of machines and the distant din of the hospital beyond.
My fingers gently encase Viktor’s, the slow and rhythmic beep of the heart monitor weaving a melancholy melody through the sterile air. Shadows, long and forlorn, stretch across the pale walls, wrapping us in a muted cocoon away from the bustling world beyond the door.
Viktor's eyes flicker, the orbs of hazel dancing with reflections from the fluorescent lights above. He swallows, the action pulling a wince through his rugged features. “They were probably gamblers, big bettors...” His voice is a raspy whisper, the words tumbling through cracked lips.
Samuil’s solid and imposing frame moves closer, his eyes narrowing attentively on my brother’s face. “Explain.”
Viktor’s gaze darts between us, a flash of the old fighter’s spirit sparking in the depths. “Or fighters themselves.” A coughrattles through him, but he persists. “They know what I’m capable of in the ring. I’m a threat to their bets, to their chances. It's all a filthy game to them.”
My grip on his hand tightens, a silent pledge threading through my veins as my eyes linger on the violet and crimson blossoming across his skin. “We’ll find them, Viktor,” I promise, my voice steady despite the tempest within. “We’ll find them and make them answer for this.”
His gaze latches onto mine, a flicker of relief, perhaps, or trust, ghosting through his expression. “You need to be careful, Stasya. They play dirty, and they won’t hesitate to come after you, too.”
Samuil steps forward, a quiet strength emanating from his every pore. “She won’t be alone in this, Viktor. I swear it.”
Viktor’s eyes, clouded with pain and fatigue, flicker toward Samuil. The two of them, bound by years of camaraderie and battles waged both within and beyond the ring, communicate in silent understanding and unspoken allegiance. “Look after her, Samuil. Keep her safe.”
The declaration falls from Samuil’s lips with an unshakable resolve. “With my life.”
In the dim light of the room, with the echoes of anguish and impending retribution winding around us, the pact is forged. Unseen, it binds us with chords of loyalty, resilience, and a shared, unyielding determination.
Samuil’s gaze meets mine, and for a moment, vulnerability flickers through the stoic mask. “Meet me at dawn,” he says, “We start training first thing.”
I nod, ready for the work ahead.
Samuil turns toward the door, his frame silhouetted against the muted lights of the corridor beyond. Before he steps into the shadows, he pauses, looking back at us over his shoulder. “I’ll contact my brothers. This affront won’t go unanswered. Anattack against family, against our own, is an attack against the Bratva itself. They will regret ever crossing us.”
And with that, he slips away.
