1
CATERINA
For a minute, all I can hear is the screaming.
Anika. Anika. Anika.
Her name repeats over and over in my head as I fling myself to the carpet next to Viktor, reaching for the tiny hand outstretched on the bloodied rug. In that moment, I forget about Viktor, our argument, the conversation we just had, everything that happened out in the gardens. The world narrows down to the small, still body in front of me, her skin waxy pale and her eyes shuttered closed, fringed lashes on her cheeks.
Viktor is already reaching for her, scooping her up into his arms. Luca reaches out, a hand on his shoulder as he tries to stop him, but Viktor flings it away.
“Viktor—it might not be good to move her—”
“Get out of my way!” he roars, rising to his feet with his daughter clasped in his arms. “Get the fucking doctor,” he adds to no one in particular, and I see Levin already in motion, reaching for his phone. I almost wonder if I should do it myself, but Viktor is already heading for the stairs, and I want to be with Anika. I don’t want to let her out of my sight for even a moment.
And I want to be with my husband right now, too. Everything else fades into the background, faced with the terrible possibility that we could lose Anika.
We can’t. That can’t happen. I won’t let it.
I think that over and over as I follow Viktor upstairs, as if there’s really anything I could truly do about it. “Where’s Yelena?” I ask breathlessly as we reach the hallway, and he turns to walk towards Anika’s room.
“She was in the playroom when the shooting started,” he says curtly. “Some of our security is there, keeping her safe.”
“Should I check on her—”
“Do what you want.” His voice is clipped, all of his focus on the child in his arms. “I’m staying with Anika.”
I follow him into the bedroom, watching as he lays her down on one side of the bed. Even the full-sized bed in her room makes her look small in her current state, her blond hair tangled and matted around her face, the blood on her shirt an ugly, terrifying stain.
It’s impossible to tell what is hers and what could be from someone else. I press one hand to my chest as I step closer, willing it to slow down, for my panic to recede, so that I can think. So that I can be there for Viktor, who is pale as death, kneeling next to the bed as he reaches for his daughter’s hand. It’s very small in his, her arm limp, and I swallow hard, fighting back the tears. Crying won’t help anything right now. Truthfully, I could probably be of more help watching Yelena or going downstairs to help Sofia and Ana. But I can’t pull myself away from this spot.
There’s a brisk knock at the door, and Levin steps inside. “The doctor is on his way,” he says briskly. “I told him that the first priority is Anika.”
“Send him up as soon as he gets here.” Viktor reaches out, touching the little girl’s stomach. “She’s still bleeding. Caterina, get something—”
I nearly shove past Levin in my haste, looking for the first bathroom or closet that I see. There’s a linen closet a few steps away, and I grab a handful of washcloths, hurrying back into the room and handing one to Viktor. He shakes his head, still gripping Anika’s hand. “You do it,” he says firmly. “The wound is in her belly. Hold the cloth there. I can’t—”
He breaks off, but I know what he’s not saying. He doesn’t want to let go of her hand, because he’s not sure that she’s going to make it. I’m not sure either—can a child as small as Anika survive a wound like that? She’s still breathing, but shallowly, her skin waxy and pale. I press the cloth to her stomach, feeling another twist of nausea at the sight of blood blooming over the cloth, but I don’t let go. I’ve never been particularly good with this kind of thing, which I suppose is a shortcoming, being in a mafia family and married to the Bratva leader. Blood and violence are a part of our lives.
Especially lately, it’s become more and more clear that being squeamish isn’t something I can afford.
“Where the fuck is that fucking doctor?” Viktor growls under his breath, his lips pressed tightly together. “If she dies because he took his fucking time—”
“He’s coming as fast as he can, I’m sure of it,” I say softly. “She’ll live, Viktor. She has to—”
“You don’t know that.” He looks up at me then, and I can see the naked pain in his eyes. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen that level of emotion from him without something tempering it, concealing the true depth of it from me. I know why now, of course—why he’d wanted a wife to fuck and give him an heir and nothing more. There’s more to that conversation that I know we need to have, too—but not now.
“She’s a fighter,” I say gently, taking the bloody cloth away from her belly and replacing it with a clean one. It’s slower to stain this time, which I hope is a good sign—and not a sign that we’re losing her. “It’s Anika, Viktor. She’s stubborn as hell, you know that. She’s not going to go out like this.”
Viktor laughs at that, a startling sound, as if he hadn’t expected it. “You’re right,” he grunts, rubbing his thumb over Anika’s fragile, pale knuckles. “Out of the two of them, she is our little fighter. She won’t give up so easily.”
I give him a startled look, wondering if he realized what he just said.Ourlittle fighter.Something warm and soft blooms inside of my chest, because when I think of reasons to stay with Viktor, beyond obligation and my own reluctant desire, I think of his daughters. Of Anika and Yelena, who needs a mother, someone who can raise them to think for themselves, to see beyond the world that they’ll grow up in. Someone who can do better for them than my own mother did.
I know Viktor married me to be a stepmother to them. But for him to say that, to call Anika ours, means something to me.
Why can’t he just do something different?My heart aches in my chest, looking at my handsome husband as he holds his daughter’s hand, his face taut, his eyes begging her to make it, to survive. I know if Anika dies, his loss will be incalculable. I can’t understand why he can’t apply that to the women who pass through his warehouse, why he can’t think of the parents who have lost their children, grown as they are.I’ll talk to him about it again,I think to myself, glancing nervously at the door as we wait for the doctor.Maybe this will make him see things differently. Maybe there’s some way to convince him.
I’ve tried not to think of how thingscouldbe, because that seems like a recipe for disappointment and misery. Sofia learned to live with her husband’s position and obligations, to turn a blind eye to the things she might disagree with, and to exist in a world that she might not have chosen for herself. It should beeasierfor me because I was born for this, raised for it. I was born into a world of violent men who did evil things, and I’d always known I’d have to turn a blind eye to what my husband did.