The Final Hour (Volkov Bratva #3)(46)

Shrugging on the shirt, threatening to cut off Luka’s hands when he offered to button up his shirt, Mishca reached for his phone, quickly scanning through local articles about the shooting. Despite what Luka had told him, coverage was minimum, though there was still a few more mentions of it than Mishca would have preferred.

There wasn’t much Mishca could do about his physical appearance—getting shot had that affect—but he could hide the sutured wound on his chest so Lauren wouldn’t have to see. The events of that day were murky at best, but he remembered Lauren being with him, so he didn’t want to make it any worse for her.

Voices in the hallway carried into the room. Lauren and his doctor, Mishca thought. He only had a second to send Luka a look, letting the enforcer know not to try anything stupid—though he would more than likely do it anyway.

The doctor entered first, smiling proudly as though he had single-handedly brought Mishca back from the brink of death. He probably had, but Mishca was too focused on Lauren to hear anything the man had to say.

She hovered at the door, almost like she was afraid to come near him. He didn’t want that. He hated seeing that fear in her eyes.

Stepping around the doctor, cutting him off mid-sentence, Mishca met her at the door, pulling her into his arms even as she protested. Her arms were loose around him, like she was afraid she would hurt him further if she held tighter. What little he did remember of their wedding day was mostly of her, her tears, her voice.

Even though they had an audience of two, Mishca wanted to calm her, reassure her that everything was fine, even if he wasn’t sure of that.

“I’m okay, Lauren,” he whispered in her ear, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple. “Look at me.”

Hesitantly, she did as he said, golden eyes searching his face. For what, he wasn’t sure, but he could imagine what she was seeing as she looked at him. Her expression mirrored the one he’d had the day he watched his mother slip away.

“I won’t leave you,” he promised.

She smiled sadly. “You can’t promise me that, Mish.”

“No, I can’t, but I can damn well try.”

He thought about Klaus’ spontaneous visit the night before, about what Lauren had asked of him, but he had time to talk to her about that later. Right now, he was more than ready to get out of the hospital.

Mishca turned back to the doctor, though he kept hold of Lauren’s hand. He listened patiently as the doctor went on about what he would need to do to keep the wound clean, and that he would need to return to the hospital in a few weeks time to get the stitches removed.

When he was finally finished—not that Mishca would have listened to any more—Mishca filled out his discharge forms, ready to get out of there.

“Your chariot awaits,” Luka announced grandly, reappearing with the wheelchair he’d just brought in, the manic grin on his face making Lauren giggle.

If not for her reaction, Mishca might have strangled him.

“I can walk.”

Instead of addressing him, the bastard, he turned to Lauren. “He really should use this. Doctor’s orders.”

Looking unsure, Lauren looked at him. “Mish—”

“Lauren, I’m fine.”

“Please.”

Sighing in defeat—knowing there was no way he would be getting out of that room until he complied—Mishca reluctantly sat in the chair, gritting his teeth when Luka began whistling a jaunty tune as he backed him out of the room.

When he got his enforcer alone, he would make him pay for this.

It took far longer than Mishca would have liked to get outside and to his Range Rover, thanks in part to Luka rolling him through every part of the hospital like he was a damn exhibit.

But Mishca’s last straw came when Luka opened the rear door, then crouched down like he was about to lift Mishca from the wheelchair.

Shoving him away, Mishca climbed to his feet. “Don’t make me shoot you.”

He cursed when he heard Lauren’s sharp intake, regretting his choice of words when he saw the look on her face.

Luka frowned. “Too soon.”

God, he would kill him.

Luka drove like the speed limit was only twenty miles an hour and it took them far longer to get to the penthouse than Mishca would have liked, but he didn’t complain, not with the way Lauren clung to his hand, staring apprehensively out the window.

Her eyes skirted over the towering buildings, like she thought she would be able to see any other threat against him. He pulled her closer to his side, wanting to take her mind off it.

Outside their building, there was far more security than Mishca would have liked, but he understood the caution all the same. Instead of going through the front, they pulled around to the rear, entering in through the service elevator that was being manned by five of Mikhail’s men. That annoyed Mishca. Mikhail couldn’t be there himself, but he sent some of his men? It wasn’t like he really cared, not anymore.

When they were finally inside the apartment, Mishca collapsed down onto the sofa, sighing in relief. He never had liked hospitals. Now that he was back, Mishca needed to plan his next move.

First thing first, he needed to hold a meeting, but his attention was snared by Lauren as she answered her phone, her expression growing pensive as she excused herself.

“Who was calling?” Mishca asked as she came back out into the living room a few minutes later.