“This isn’t my fault,” she snapped. “I had nothing to do with this.”
“It was just a joke,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I know that this doesn’t have anything to do with you, and I’m sorry to have brought you to this point.”
“It wasn’t very funny. This is serious. They may come back, and stop being so stoic. Let me get the first aid kit while we wait.”
“Oh, I’m not stoic,” he said, his voice sounding even weaker. He leaned his head back on the couch cushion and closed his eyes for a few seconds, taking more deep breaths as if to garner another round of strength. “This hurts like fuck…”
The spidery veins from the blood staining his shirt continued to grow, and his pale skin approached an unnatural gray. Zoya slowly pulled away to sit on the floor next to him and lifted the sleeve of his blood-spattered t-shirt to look more carefully at his wound. “You need to listen to me,” she said sternly, growing even more concerned when he didn’t scold her for sitting up. “I think that the bullet went through the muscle in your arm, but you’re losing too much blood, and I think that you’re going into shock. I need to run to the kitchen to grab a towel and put some pressure on it. You aren’t going to do me any good if you pass out on the floor.”
“Just give me a minute,” he whispered. “I’ll be fine, and you aren’t standing until my men get here. Just wait.” He kicked the gun box with his foot. “There’s a smaller gun in there, Zoya. Take it out.”
She looked for something close by to pack the wound with, but seeing nothing, she took off her blouse and held it tightly to his shoulder. “Take the fucking gun, Zoya,” he snapped. “I need to know that you have it in your hands.”
A car drove down the street, causing her to tense with fear, and she reluctantly packed the shirt into his sleeve and followed his instructions. This gun was lighter than the first and fit almost perfectly into the palm of her hand. She handed it to him, but he shook his head. “No, you keep that one. If they charge through the door, I’m only going to be able to do so much, and I need to know that you have a chance.”
“I don’t know how to shoot a gun. I’ve never even held one. I’m sure that your men will be here before anything else happens.”
“We don’t know that. Take the gun, and just… point it away from both of us. There is no ammunition in the chamber, you’re fine. Settle the grip into the web of your hand. Like that, good girl.” He continued to coach her in a tone that had no business sounding calm, moving her palms and fingers until he was completely satisfied with her two-handed grasp. It felt a little awkward, but there was no denying her control over the weapon.
“Now what?” she snapped, trying to keep her hands from shaking. “Do I just sit here and point it at the door?”
“Pull the slide back and that will load the chamber. Pull harder, it’s stiff. It’s not going to randomly go off, Zoya. Stop being afraid of it.” Just knowing that the gun was loaded dramatically increased her anxiety. She was ready to tell him that she refused to continue when he said, “Point at the ceiling and pull the trigger. At least once before you’re forced into a corner, you need to see what it feels like when it fires.”
“I’m not shooting the ceiling, Pavel,” she insisted, lowering the gun in disbelief. “It will leave a hole.”
“My God, Zoya. Do it now or if we survive this fucking mess, I’m going to beat your ass until you can’t sit for a week.” She still hesitated and he shouted, pointing his own gun at the ceiling. “Shoot the fucking gun! Now!”
Holding the gun as steady as she could, she held her breath and obeyed, squeezing the trigger and tensing in preparation for the eruption. The gun had a lot more kick than she’d expected, and she gasped for a long few seconds after it discharged before she looked to find the hole. She was relieved that it was over and almost verbally acknowledged her burgeoning sense of pride when Pavel asked incredulously, “What the hell were you aiming at?”
“The ceiling!” she snapped, her nerves reaching the end of her patience. “You told me to shoot the fucking ceiling, and I did!”
“Pick an actual spot, and this time, keep your damned eyes open. Aim for that water mark over in the corner. This will give me two good reasons to fix the ceiling.”
“What if somebody gets hurt? I don’t like this.” She worked hard to keep the whine out of her tone, but she was failing miserably. “Please, don’t make me do this again.”
“Seriously,” he grumbled, rubbing the sheen of sweat on his brow. “If somebody is upstairs in my bathroom right now, I don’t have a fucking problem with shooting them. Keep your eyes open, keep the gun steady, and shoot the stain. It’s a big target. You can do this.”
Surrounded by broken glass, his blood-stained t-shirt, and the ominous front door standing as their only barrier to whatever was out there, she raised the gun with a reluctant nod. This time, the kick was less surprising, and she left the mark roughly where she’d expected.
“Good,” he said, closing his eyes. “Point it at the door, and we wait. Shoot any fucking thing that moves. My men will call me before they come into the house.” He paused for a few seconds, taking a few more deep breaths. “Then we’re going to have a conversation about your language.”
“My language?” she mumbled.
Holding the gun a little steadier, she continued to force air into her lungs, focusing on slow steady breaths. The house grew deadly silent and the long minutes ticked past them as she listed to the creaking walls and the occasional car driving past the house, the occupants seemingly oblivious to their life or death stand. She never took her eyes off the door, working hard to defeat her weakness and willing herself to believe that she could kill any person who came into that room.
The horrific pain in his arm refused to subside, but the bleeding had slowed dramatically after she’d packed the wound with her shirt. She had given him a lot of attitude over using the damned gun, but all things considered, her resolve, bravery, and commitment to remain calm had been amazing under the dire circumstances. Sitting next to him on the floor with the gun steady in her hands, she appeared to be fully equipped to defend herself.
Within fifteen minutes, the first of his men arrived and half an hour later, they were surrounded by an array of heavily armed, unsmiling gunman from his payroll. Knowing that she was safe helped him breathe a little easier, but despite his calm demeanor, a raging fury consumed him, feeding his plans to deliver an endless storm of revenge against those responsible.
In a quiet daze, Zoya had found a clean t-shirt in the laundry room and slipped it over her blood-covered bra. “Please, Pavel,” she begged, holding a first aid kit. “Sit on the couch and let me dress that wound properly. You can keep shouting orders at everybody while I work.” She rolled her eyes when he didn’t respond. “I can even go get the damned duct tape if you prefer your do-it-yourself job, but you just can’t sit there and bleed.”
He grunted, but the bright red bloodstain forced him to comply. With a pair of scissors, she cut off his t-shirt and roughly bandaged his shoulder with a long roll of gauze and the proper medical adhesives. “You need to call that doctor from the ER,” she said with a frown. “It’s a gunshot wound, for God’s sake. It should at least be seen by a professional.”
“There is a limit to my patience tonight,” he growled, pointing to a chair. “Sit down and stay out of the way. Josef, there’s some plywood in the garage from the last hurricane. Get some of your men to cover the front window and call Michelson’s to replace the glass. I want it done before breakfast. Denis, have you set up a perimeter? And somebody get a broom and start cleaning this mess up.”
When his cell phone rang, he addressed Liam with a bark, wincing when he moved his wounded shoulder too quickly. Turning to Zoya, he translated. “He’s in Staten Island and everything is fine. My men are in the driveway, and Liam will spend the rest of the night. Linda’s a little shaken, but her husband’s also well equipped to handle a gun and the boys are immune to any excite
ment.”
“Pavel,” shouted a boisterous voice from the front door. “I’m coming in, so don’t shoot me.”
When the heavy-set Ukrainian doctor came into the room, Pavel glared at Zoya. “I didn’t call him,” she insisted. “I don’t even know his name. Don’t look at me like that!”
“It was your cousin,” assured the doctor. “He said that you’d been hurt and needed me to come. Relax, my friend. Just let me take a look at it, and maybe even make you a little more comfortable.”
Ignoring him, Pavel issued more demands for his spies to begin retrieving valuable information he needed to move forward and positioning his men around the city to further secure his defenses. To fully make his impact against an unknown enemy, his timeline for retribution had already begun, and he wouldn’t rest until he’d finished. When he was satisfied with their responses and the confusion in the room reached a temporary lull, Zoya stepped in front of him, her blue-gray eyes sharp and unforgiving, making him feel inexplicably guilty. “Everything’s under control,” she said. “There is nothing else you can do. Let him look at it and stop being so stubborn.”
“Fine,” he rumbled, sitting in his leather recliner next to the fireplace. “Look at it, but I’m not taking any pain medication. You’d better believe I’m going to stay alert until I figure out who the fuck did this.”
Zoya turned to Frederic, adding anxiously, “I don’t think the bullet embedded into his shoulder. There was a lot of blood, but it’s slowed since I packed and taped it.”
The doctor removed the bandages and whistled softly. “You’re right. It’s going to be fine. Let me clean it, throw some stitches in there, then I want you to keep it dry and stable for a few days, but let’s start you on some antibiotics, just to be sure.” Turning to Zoya, he raised an eyebrow. “I’m assuming that you didn’t shoot him?”
“Of course not,” she snapped, pointing her finger at his chest. “Just fix him, and keep your judgmental crap to yourself. There’s no fucking way I’m putting up with any male bonding jokes at my expense tonight.”
“I see her temper hasn’t subsided,” Frederic rumbled. “Are you sure that you’ll be safe with her tonight? I can stay if you’re nervous, Pavel.”
“I’m fine, Frederic,” he sighed. To keep her from hitting the good doctor, he pulled her to his side, tapping her bottom to deliver a subtle warning. “But I wouldn’t make her any more agitated than she already is. There’s a lot of attitude in this one, and you don’t want to be on the receiving end of her anger tonight.”
After the stitches, the doctor re-bandaged his shoulder and wrote the script for the antibiotics. He left a handful of pain pills on the coffee table. “Just in case you change your mind. I’d give you something stronger, but I know that you won’t take it. This is acetaminophen with codeine, not too powerful. Take two, and they’ll only work for a few hours. You could use the sleep tonight, my friend.”
Frederic left with another withering glare toward Zoya, but she returned it with a scathing look of her own as she slammed the front door behind his back. Picking up two of the pain pills, she stood in front of him and held them out without speaking, but he had no patience for her misplaced temper. “Go to bed, Zoya. Everything and everybody is secure, but I’ve still got some business to see to.”
She stared at him in abject defiance, but he nodded toward the staircase and snapped his fingers. “Now,” he demanded. “Don’t think for one second that you’re protected because we’re surrounded by a roomful of my men.” The credible threat was enough to get her moving, and she sulked up the stairs like a scolded child.
Denis Toliver and Josef Malkovich were his top men, and he joined them at the kitchen table to begin breaking down what they’d already learned about the shooting and the whereabouts of the top Turgenev soldiers. As more information arrived, they changed the course of their investigation several times before he sent his leaders home with daylight a few hours away, but his house remained surrounded by an army of his best soldiers with two cars on the street and a roving patrol walking the property. He could sleep now, or at least rest his eyes for a few hours until it was time to start again.
On the way to his bedroom, he opened her door, fully expecting to find her curled under the covers and sound asleep, but surrounded by darkness, she was wrapped in an afghan and sitting up in the corner of the tiny bed. Her hair was wet, and she wore an old pair of his sweatpants and his soft, worn Yankees shirt that she’d taken for her own.
“You should be asleep,” he scolded. Even the sight of her tore at his heart, and his voice didn’t sound like his own. “Lie down. There are trustworthy, heavily armed men all around you.”
“I know,” she said softly. “I can see them from the windows. But being safe and feeling safe aren’t the same thing, are they?” She shifted her weight, and he joined her on the bed, nudging the wet hair out of her eyes. “Are you sure that you’re okay, Pavel?” she asked, gently touching the bandages on his shoulder. “I put the pain medication in your bathroom in case you change your mind.”
“I’m fine, little girl. Go to sleep before I find that extra bit of strength in this arm to have that discussion I promised over your language.” He ran his hands across her cheeks, slightly taken aback to find them wet with tears. “You’ve been crying, haven’t you?”
“I… I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Worrying about me is the last thing that you should have to deal with. It’s just that… is it always going to be like this? Do I always have to worry about you being shot or hurt? Do I always have to think twice before I close my curtains?”
In less than ten years, he faced another woman struggling to adapt to his world. He couldn’t force this life on her like he had Marie, but he wasn’t prepared to let her go either. The bravery and fortitude that had sustained her through those agonizing few minutes was gone, and her tears were all that was left. It calmed him to hold her, rubbing his face into her hair that smelled like the vanilla-scented shampoo she liked to buy from the downtown department store. “It’s all going to be fine,” he said. “Just give me a few weeks to fix things. In the meantime, would you be more comfortable if you slept with me?”
She nodded. “I feel like an idiot. I’ve never been afraid to be alone in my entire life.”
“From what you’ve told me, you’ve never had much of a chance to be alone. It’s okay to be afraid, and you aren’t any weaker to admit that this has been a rough day.” He took her hand to set her on her feet. “Come and get settled in my bed. I need to get up in a few hours, but I expect you to sleep in and stay in the house until we know what’s going on.”
She crinkled her nose, but he spoke sternly. “I mean it. I’m going to order my men to take a belt to your ass if you so much as step out on the back deck with your big toe, then call me to do the same. This is non-negotiable. You can have anything you need delivered until this is all over.”
In his bedroom, he unsnapped the holster from his calf, and dropped his Glock on the bedside table, kicking his ruined jeans to the floor. Lying down on the bed, he closed his eyes, taking advantage of the quiet and willing his muscles to relax, but his adrenaline had yet to slow and his arm throbbed.
Instead of joining him, she went to the bathroom and returned with the pain pills. “Just take them, Pavel,” she mumbled, dropping them on the nightstand. “Otherwise you’ll be up all night. They won’t knock you out, but you’ll rest comfortably for a few hours, then you can emit all of the masculine pigheadedness that you want. This house is surrounded by more guns than the Red Army. Besides,” she added, nodding toward the Glock. “I know how to shoot that stupid thing now. How could you sleep any better than knowing I have your back?”
Looking every bit as impenetrable as the bratva soldier who worked for him, she waited with her arms crossed, pointing at the pills next to Marie’s picture as though the two women had joined forces against him. Picking them off the table, he swallowed them and held
out his hands in defeat. “Good boy,” she said dryly, adding a little sarcastic eye roll. “The no water thing makes me a little nauseous, but that’s fine.”
Slipping out of her clothes, she curled into his side. He pulled her even closer into his good arm, and she wrapped her leg around his thigh to offer a familiar comfort. They lay together for a long time as he stared at the ceiling, but there were no sounds of her steady breathing to indicate that she’d fallen asleep. The curtains to the balcony overlooking the ocean remained open and the moon sent a sharp streak of light across his floor, but for the first time in weeks, he kept the sliding glass door closed and locked, muffling the sounds of the waves that generally helped him sleep.
As promised, the pills slowly lessened his discomfort, but sleep still didn’t come. Turning to the nightstand, he stared at Marie’s picture for a long time. He remembered that moment like it was yesterday; a family day trip that she’d insisted on with the unspoken realization that her time with her sons would be limited. The world would never understand what they’d lost the day she’d died, but he’d failed her as a husband who’d sworn to care for her. Her children would remain her legacy, wonderful boys on their way to becoming even better men.
Retrospect provided an easy avenue for regret. If he could go back in time, he’d make different choices in his marriage and in his relationships, but there was nothing he could do to change the past. He’d never forget the joy they’d shared when he was young and careless, living his life without truly appreciating what he’d been given, but the time had come to move her picture. Yuri didn’t have a photo of his mother in his room. At this point in his life, the photo belonged there, and Zoya belonged in Pavel’s bed.
“I don’t want to visit the apartments you picked out,” she said softly, still nestled into his arms. “I should have told you before, but I don’t want to move away.”
A sense of relief washed over him, and he kissed the top of her head, recognizing his opioid-increased confusion was reducing some of his stoic barriers. “Good,” he said, not caring what the long-term message might be. “Because I’m not sure that I could have let you go.”
Sold To The Russian Page 14
