Champagne Venom (Orlov Bratva, #1)(123)

He walks right up to me and looks me in the eye for the first time since he entered the ward. “Wrong.

Unlike you, I mean every word I say.”

More tears roll down my cheeks unchecked. The heartbeat monitor I’m hooked up to is keening like a dying animal, but Misha turns away again. He looks more disgusted than ever as he makes for the door. Just as he’s about to disappear into the hallway, a nurse walks in, blocking his path. She takes one look at me and her lips twist with concern.

“Ma’am, are you alright?” She rushes to my side, but I’m not looking at her—I’m looking at Misha.

He doesn’t look back. He steps into the black mouth of the hallway and disappears.

And the rest of the tears come pouring like rain.

“What is wrong?” the nurse asks. “What happened?” She checks the machines beeping behind me and scans my body like she might be able to see the fatal blow Misha just dealt.

But I know she can’t. No one can see the shattered remains of my heart.

I grab onto her, sobbing into her shoulder and soaking her scrubs with my tears.

“Oh my. I see. There, there, my dear,” the nurse says kindly. “It’s okay. It’s all going to be okay.”

But as much as I wish I could believe in them, her promises are empty and meaningless.

Just like my tears.

After a while, I manage to calm myself enough to form a coherent sentence. “Please, can you help me?”

The nurse looks at me with alarm. “Of course, dear. Whatever I can do.”

“I need to make a call.”

She nods. “You can use the phone by the bed. I’ll give you the extension to dial out.”

I breathe a sigh of relief and reach for the phone as she starts tapping numbers. I’m not sure this will work. I’m not sure if I’ll get the help I’m looking for.

But there’s only one person I can think of to call.

I have no one else.





94

MISHA

“P-please, sir,” the grubby little man begs. “I-I don’t have anything to do with Petyr Ivanov.”

I shift my gun to the side so that I can see his face better. “I might have believed you if you hadn’t just given yourself away.”

His eyes go round. “What? I don’t know what you’re—”

“Save it,” I interrupt, feeling the bloodlust pulse through my body. It feels good to be out in the field, getting my hands dirty. It’s exactly the distraction I need. This is pure and physical and violent.

The other shit? Too messy. Too insubstantial. Feelings are for women and children.

Action is for men fit to wear the crown.

“Misha,” Konstantin pleads from behind me, “just… stop for a moment.”

But I can’t stop. I can’t stop for a single second. Because if I do, I’ll think about her. I’ll hear her sobs as I walked out of that hospital room. I’ll start making excuses again.

“Please, sir,” the man whimpers. He’s on his knees, his hands held together in a wordless prayer.

“Please don’t kill me. I’m innocent.”

“Innocent of what?”

“Of… of working with Petyr Ivanov.”

I snap my fingers. “Ah, there. You see? I never mentioned Petyr Ivanov. You did.”

His lip trembles when he realizes his mistake. I don’t want to hear him beg a third time. It’s too pathetic.

So before he can utter another whimper, I shoot him between the eyes. He goes down like the useless sack of bones he is. Or, was, rather.

Rest in pieces, asshole.

Konstantin shakes his head in disgust. “Jesus. He was a—a nobody, man. An underling. A minor player. We don’t bother hunting down the rats.”

“Anthony is a rat,” I point out. “And he’s given me no end of trouble. Better to kill the rats before they start to pose a real threat.”

My cousin blows out a weary breath. “It’s late. You should go home.”

“I’m fine.”

“Your eyes are red. You look like shit.”

“I’m just high on the chase.”

“You’re going to get killed on the chase if you don’t get some rest!” He lowers his voice. “You can’t avoid going home forever.”

I want to argue, but Konstantin has seen to the heart of me. Denying it would only make my objective more obvious. And the longer I stay here, the more he’s going to press.

Given how I’m feeling now, I might end up killing him, just for the momentary refuge from emotion.

And as much as he irritates me—now more than ever—I’d still regret his death in the morning.

I clench my jaw and nod. “Call me tomorrow. First thing.”

“Consider it done. Now, for the love of God, go home. I’ve got enough bodies to bury already.”

I climb into my car and fire up the engine. I consider hitting up one of my old haunts. Some sleazy bar where no one asks questions or even glances in your direction unless you explicitly invite it. But I’m not in the mood for company.

The one person I want to see is the person I need to avoid.

So I go home. Maybe putting an end to this day from hell is the right call. I’ll have a clearer head in the morning. Things will make sense in the light of dawn.