You Don't Own Me 2 (The Russian Don 2)

I disconnect the line and grab my head in frustration. Why did he have to call her? Why did she have to interfere? Everything was going so smoothly. I knew what Lenny was planning. As if I’d ever trust a sewer rat like him. I let him make his move and I was about to execute mine. Everything was ready to go. They were about to fall into my net in one fell swoop. Then she goes and foils it all.

Why Dahlia? Why?

I feel the fear building, my breath starting to come in shallow and fast. I can’t submit to it. I have to get control. Put it somewhere it cannot seep out. She’ll be all right. I know she will. She has to. I’ve got the best surgeons working on her.

I feel a dull ache in my eyes. I turn around to go back to Stella when Noah approaches me, his face horrified.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

My mind buzzes like an electrical circuit fried by overload. Images get scrambled in my brain. I see her alone running barefoot in the rain as if the hounds of hell are after her. I lash out. My fist swings out hard and lands on his chin. He is not expecting it and stumbles backwards, slamming into the vending machine.

‘Where the fuck were you?’ I snarl. ‘You had only one thing to do. One fucking thing. Trail her. Never let her out of your sight.’

He holds his chin in the palm of his hand. ‘She didn’t want me to come in. It is standard. We always wait for her at the nearest coffee shop, and when she’s finished she calls and we go and collect her.’

‘That’s not what we agreed. You let her decide? Have you gone soft?’ I grit out between my teeth.

‘We can’t follow her into people’s homes. She wouldn’t let us. This is the first time she left without calling me. There was nothing I could do.’

I slam my fist into the wall. It cracks and bits of plaster and white powder fall to the ground.

A busybody in a nurse’s uniform comes towards us. ‘Excuse me,’ she says sternly.

Both Noah and I round on her with such maniacal expressions of rage that she stops and backs away, a terrified expression on her face.

‘I’m really sorry, boss,’ Noah says again.

The rage goes away. The ice re-forms. ‘Have you picked him up?’ I ask, my voice icy.

‘Yes, he’s in the warehouse.’

‘And the rest of them?’

‘Pig food.’

I turn from him and walk away. From the corner of my eyes I can see two detectives coming up to me. Well, they’ll get nothing from me. I’ll be sending them directly to my lawyer.

Twenty-nine

Zane

Dr. Hassan Medhi, the neurosurgeon, comes in. I turn away from staring out of the window and Stella stands. He looks tired and somber. He’s been in surgery for the past seven hours.

‘How is she?’ I ask, my voice tight.

‘Come and sit down,’ he says moving to the chair opposite the one Stella was sitting on.

Stella resumes her seat and I take the one next to hers.

Dr. Medhi clasps his hands and clears his throat. ‘I’ve done all I could. Her skull was badly fractured and basically the entire left side of her brain was bleeding and covered in blood clots. I’m afraid I was forced to remove ten percent of her brain.’

I gasp, rising to my feet and towering above him.

Dr. Medhi’s face twitches. He’s afraid of me. Most men are. He clears his throat again. ‘It was too risky to remove all the skull fragments. She’s on life support at the moment and I’ve inserted pressure-monitoring devices inside her brain, which will allow us to intervene if the pressure in the brain increases, but I’m afraid you must prepare yourself for the worst. The likelihood of her even making it through is very slim, and even if she does make it, she may never become cognizant. You do understand my meaning … become aware … conscious of her surroundings.’

Stella appears frozen with shock.

My throat constricts and my muscles coil uneasily. ‘Dr. Hassan I chose you because you are supposed to be the best neurosurgeon in Europe. I don’t want to hear anything from you except how you’re going to make her better.’

For a few seconds a stunned silence prevails.

Then Dr. Medhi speaks and his voice is filled with a quiet pride. ‘I can assure you, Mr. Malenkov, that Miss Fury has received the best treatment she could possibly get, not just in Europe, but anywhere in the world.’

I take a deep breath. The understated confidence in his voice some how soothes me. Yes, she is in the best hands possible.

‘The next twenty-four hours are critical,’ he says, ‘but you will be able to see her in two hours’ time. We’ll talk again after tomorrow.’