Kostya: A Dark Mafia Romance (Zinon Bratva) by Nicole Fox (my reading book .TXT) 📕

have,” she whispers. “I love you, too, Kostya.” She has tears in her eyes, and I want to brush away the ones sliding down her cheeks, but I can’t lift my hand, or my head, or my leg. I am numb, but the pain is gone and for that I’m grateful.

When she opens her mouth to speak, the darkness absorbs the sound.

Then it takes me.

23

Charlotte

The hospital is almost as chaotic as the Fifth Faith parking lot was when Kostya was shot. There is noise and bustling, people in and out, an intercom paging doctors and staff, machines whirring and beeping, voices and conversations, prayers and pleading.

And out of all the chaos, I can’t get a single answer. Can’t find anyone to tell me what is going on with Kostya, whether or not he’s going to live.

I’ve walked miles in thirty-foot increments, back and forth from the window to the elevator in this damn waiting room, where other families have come, gotten their good news, and gone back to their happy little lives.

And I’m still waiting. Still walking. Still breathing in the antiseptic smell of whatever they use to scrub the stench of death from the walls and floors.

Some of Kostya’s men are standing or sitting, coffees in hand, speaking to one another in hushed Russian tones. No one looks up, no one speaks to me, no one watches the door except me.

“Miss? That’s a pretty nasty-looking cut over your eye.”

I lift my hand and feel where the skin is open. “It’s fine. It’s old.” I don’t care if this thing scars.

The man, dressed in blue scrubs and wearing one of those funny wraps on his blond hair, leans in. “Are you safe?” His slight motion with his head indicates the band of Russian mobsters—most of whom are dressed in suits and haven’t even bothered to loosen their ties—seated around the room.

“Yeah. I’m fine.” He turns to leave, but since he’s the first medical person to speak to me since I’ve been here, I can’t let him go. “Is there any news about my … friend?”

“Not yet.” He glances at the room of oversized men who are clearly more comfortable carrying weapons than sitting in a room without them. “If you need anything”—he leans in to whisper—“like security, we’re at the desk.”

When I nod, he steps back then walks away but looks over his shoulder once more as he walks down the hall. To be honest, I probably wouldn’t be any safer in a room full of cops.

I want a minute of fresh air, or at least air that doesn’t have this horrible hospital stench, but I can’t walk away, not until I know something, not until someone reassures me that Kostya is going to live.

He lost so much blood, even though the ambulance made really good time getting there. Even though Collin knew how to tie the tourniquet around the top of Kostya’s leg to slow down the blood loss.

Mostly, I’m just tired of waiting. Tired of not knowing.

My baby needs a father. His daughter needs her father, too, and these people keeping their secrets and not telling me what’s going on is too much. I’m not the scared little secretary I once was. I am—well, not quite Kostya’s woman, but his something. The mother of his baby, his heir. Someone needs to tell me what the hell is happening.

The anxiety builds. Every breath is harder to take, and with every blink, it’s harder and harder to open my eyes. My legs are weak and my stomach clenches. I can’t stand.

When I collapse, nine very large Russian men form a tight circle around me as a tenth lifts me and carries me to the small sofa in the room.

I still can’t catch a breath and the commotion in the room gets louder, ringing inside my head as one of the large Russians puts a pillow under my head and the man in the scrubs is back with his stethoscope pressed against my heart.

He pulls the earpieces out and takes my hands in his, squeezing.

“Okay, listen. Breathe with me.” He demonstrates and I try but I can’t catch up. My lungs won’t respond, and I can’t get a message through from my brain to my chest because there’s nothing I would rather do than take a breath to make my lungs stop burning.

“Come on. Just slow down. Listen to me. Just breathe. Slow. In and out.” His voice is soft and he’s gripping my arms at the bend of my elbow, squeezing on the inhales and running his palms down to my wrists and back up on the exhales.

Eventually, I find the rhythm and every breath comes easier until the panic attack passes, and my heart is back to normal. My mind is still spinning, though. Why won’t they tell me anything? Why can’t I see him?

I take off the oxygen mask that someone put on my face and I twist to sit up. “We should get you checked out,” the man says with concern. He helps me stand when I insist on it, keeping hold of my arm. “Are you dizzy?”

“No.” I’m really fine. This incident isn’t a result of my body’s failure. This one is my mind. Or maybe it’s because I haven’t had much to eat in the last few days. I know how happy my asking for food will make him. “I’m a little hungry, though.”

“All right.” He stands and walks to the desk. “We’ll get you some food. In the meantime, you have to sit and breathe.”

He has a kind face and maybe that’s why I hang onto his hand, so he can’t move away again. “My friend is a Russian … guy”—kind face doesn’t mean I’m spilling all the big secrets—“and I’m having his baby. And no one will tell me one damn thing about whether or not he’s going to live and if we’re going to be able to figure out shit out and be a family or whether he’s going to