Dima just stands there, his face as pale as his brother’s as he looks on.
I find rubber gloves, the antiseptic, and a tube to tie around his arm.
“Okay, um, have a seat,” I say to Dima.
He doesn’t look at me as he pulls a chair out from the wall and sits in it. I crouch beside him, my tight cocktail dress making it all the more awkward, and I swab the area, then tie the rubber tube above his elbow.
I palpate his veins. Damn. Am I really going to do this? But the need to contribute somehow, to try to right my wrongs makes me push past my fear of screwing this up. I channel my mother’s clean, efficient movements. Her calm in the face of anything. Deftly, I slip the large needle into his vein, open the port and let the blood flow in.
“That’s good,” the vet says when he looks over. “Put the bag down by his feet so gravity will make it fill.”
I lay the blood bag on the floor and sit beside it, at Dima’s feet, hugging my knees.
The room is quiet while the vet works on Nikolai. Vaguely, I hear him say he has to operate to repair a damaged portion of his colon.
When Dima’s blood bag is full, I close the port and remove the needle.
“Get a new needle and put it into Nikolai’s arm,” the vet instructs me, somehow able to monitor my actions at the same time he operates.
I obey, even though I’m terrified I’m going to fuck it up. When I get the needle in, I hang the bag on the IV pole and release the port. “Um. Okay, I think I did it.”
The doctor gives it a cursory glance, then refocuses on his work. “Good job. You’re a big help, Natasha.”
I make the mistake of sneaking a look at Dima and find his icy blue glower firmly resting on me.
A shiver runs through my body. Dima obviously doesn’t agree.
And I can’t decide what scares me more—anticipating what Ravil, the ruthless mafiya boss will do to me or the knowledge that I forever lost Dima’s regard.
Dima
Nikolai’s wheezing makes my own gut burn with phantom pain. We’ve always been too close, he and I. Our lives are as intertwined as vines. The bratva has a rule—no family allowed. No wives, no children. Because we all become each other’s brothers. But since Nikolai and I were already brothers, it was allowed. Nikolai had insisted we stayed as a team, and Igor allowed it.
But that was old-world bratva. Here, in the States, Ravil runs a more relaxed cell. He and Maxim both have wives. Oleg has a girlfriend. Families are allowed. Children, even. Ravil has a five-month-old in our penthouse compound.
I haven't felt this out of control since the night Alyona told me the pancreatic cancer was untreatable. The level of adrenaline running through me has not sharpened my brain, it's only muddled it. There's a wild recklessness in me that could make me do something stupid.
I've already been too harsh with Natasha. I know she's scared, but I'm too pissed to fix it. Too terrified of losing Nikolai.
He can’t die.
Especially not this way, when it's all my fault. I was thinking with my dick when I gave Natasha the location of the game. I knew it didn’t make sense, but I couldn’t tell her no. Now I could pay the ultimate price.
I stand a few feet from the table and watch Dr. Taylor, the veterinarian Ravil keeps on the payroll for this sort of situation, operate. The fact that he has to operate doesn’t bode well for Nikolai. If he pulls through, he could have permanent side effects from this. Like a colostomy bag.
The fact that it’s a veterinarian, not a trauma specialist, operating on my brother without the full range of resources that would be available in a human hospital makes me want to kill someone. But this is the life we chose. I got Nikolai into the bratva because of a girl. Now I may have ended his life because of a girl.
Blyad’.
But Dr. Taylor’s good. I’ve seen him work before. He’s a serious guy. He may be a vet, but he knows what he’s doing. He doesn’t seem to have any hang-ups or judgments about working for the Russian mafiya.
There are never any questions. He just does the job and takes payment. I know he’ll do his best.
“Is there—um, may I use a restroom?” Natasha asks. She’s peeled off her rubber gloves and is staring at her blood-stained hands.
I jerk my head toward the reception area because I’m still not ready to talk to her, but Ravil shoots me a look.
He’s afraid she’s going to bolt.
I seriously doubt it, but you never know. My judgment is obviously totally impaired when it comes to the beautiful redhead. I also never contemplated the idea of her bringing a Fed to our game.