* * *
The sound of car doors slamming and shouting wakes me. I jump out of bed and dash through the suite to the big window. Two of the cars are back. Most of the doors are open, and the last few men are coming inside. Two of them support the third between them, practically dragging him up the stairs.
Shit. I run back into my room, pull a hoodie and sweatpants over my pajamas, and rush toward the big stairwell.
There is no one in the hall. I turn around and notice blood splattered on the white marble floor, creating a path toward the right hallway, in the direction of the kitchen. I follow the red spots along the corridor and find the kitchen doors wide open. Urgent voices and commotion blare from inside.
My blood runs cold at the sight of Varya hunched over Kostya. He is sprawled on his back on the big island in the middle of the kitchen, with Maxim holding a bloody rag to his side. One of the security guys comes running and places a box with medical supplies next to Kostya’s head and then switches places with Maxim, who goes to the sink and washes his hands with mad speed.
They are all shouting in Russian, and I don’t understand a thing they’re saying, but the sight speaks for itself. Something went wrong. And where the hell is Roman?
Two more security guys burst into the kitchen with a short bony man carrying a doctor’s bag. The doctor heads to the sink, and like Maxim, starts scrubbing his hands. They don sterile gloves and approach Kostya, who is pale, but conscious and panting. The doctor takes a look under the rag and prepares the needle and thread, while Maxim cleans the cut.
Footsteps approach from behind me, and the last of the security guys come into the kitchen with Roman wheeling in after them. A sigh of relief leaves my lungs when I see he’s unharmed, and I lunge toward him.
“Jesus, Roman!” I whisper, grab onto his face with both hands, and kiss him. It’s an angry kiss, but it still feels good. “What happened?”
“There was a slight disagreement with our supplier and things got out of hand.”
“Kostya?”
“A knife slash on his side. He’ll live.”
I turn to look back at the island where the doctor seems to be finishing sewing Kostya’s side. Maxim is placing an IV needle in his arm, while Varya holds up the bag of fluid.
“Should I help with something?” I ask.
“No, let’s go upstairs. Varya and Maxim have it under control, and the doctor will stay the night.”
* * *
“Is it always like this? Deals going wrong, people getting stabbed or shot?” I ask as we enter the suite. I’m still shaking. “Or cars getting blown up?”
“Not always. But it happens.”
My throat has gone dry. How can he be so calm? In the kitchen, I grab a glass and pour cold water from the fridge. “That’s fucked up, Roman.” I shake my head and gulp down the water, wishing it was something stronger. “Your world is seriously fucked up.”
“There is nothing I can do about it, Nina,” he says.
Yeah, I guess that’s one way to look at things. I should go back to bed but I’m too agitated, so I walk across the living room and stand at the window overlooking the driveway. The cars are gone. One security guy is standing on the side in front of the main door, a gun on his belt. Another one is patrolling the grounds toward the main gate, and this one has a rifle across his back. It looks like everything is back to normal in Roman’s world.
I hear Roman approaching as he comes to stand behind me. His crutches enter my field of vision on either side while he hunches over me and places his chin on the top of my head. I’ve never felt so petite compared to him as I do with his huge body plastered to my back, but there is no panic. I guess all the adrenalin cured me of it.
“Where are we now, Roman?”
“What do you mean?”
“We had sex,” I say, watching the man patrolling the grounds. “It wasn’t something we planned for, you know. Where do we go from here?”
“I don’t know,malysh. Where would you like to go?”
“I’m not sure.”
There is silence while we both watch the night, its darkness broken by numerous lights set up around the lawn.
“It’s late,” Roman says and places a kiss on my shoulder. “Let’s go to bed.”
“Which one?”