“Can you watch Lena for an hour or so? Something came up and it’s too late to call Sisi.”
I nod and pour more batter into the pan.
“I won’t be long.”
There is a light kiss at the top of my head, and then he’s gone. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. It’s hard to stay mad at Mikhail when every cell of my body seems, somehow, attuned to him, yearning to get closer.
I park my car inside the warehouse, jump out, and head toward the corner where the Albanian guy from this morning is sitting on the floor. He looks half dead. I turn to Denis, who is standing next to him, and grit my teeth.
“Where the fuck is the doc?” I bite out.
“He’s out of the city. Can’t get here before tomorrow. I told him the guy’s symptoms, and he says that it was either a serious concussion, or he has intracranial bleeding. He needs to go to a hospital.”
I look down at the bastard sitting in a puddle of his vomit. “He dared to shoot at the car while my wife was inside. He’s not going anywhere.”
There is a bottle of water on a nearby chair, so I grab it and splash the contents over the guy’s head. He shudders, mumbles something incoherent, and leans back onto the wall. Based on how pale he is, and the unfocused look in his eyes, he won’t last long. I’ll have to work fast.
I walk back to my car, open the trunk, and take out a toolbox. On the outside, it looks like an ordinary toolkit, but removing the interior box reveals a hidden compartment, where I keep the real tools of my trade. I grab one of the syringes and a scalpel, and head back.
“What’s that?” Denis asks, pointing to the syringe.
“Adrenalin shot,” I say as I bury the needle into the side of the guy’s neck. “It might make him more coherent for a little bit. I’ve never tried it on someone with a concussion.”
“So, it will make him better? Why didn’t Doc think of that?”
“Because Doc doesn’t kill people for a living.” I throw the syringe to the side, crouch, and take the Albanian’s hand. “When the adrenalin leaves his system, he’ll crash. Hard. Grab his shoulders and keep him still.”
Holding the guy by his wrist, I force his palm to the floor and place the scalpel at the root of his thumb. The Albanian comes to at the exact moment I cut off his finger and starts screaming.
“Shut the fuck up.” I slap him across his face. Not the wisest thing to do considering his condition, but I’m in a bad mood. “Listen to me carefully. You are going to die tonight. It can be quick, or I can make sure it’s extremely painful and long-lasting. Nod if you understand.”
He whimpers and nods, trying to pull out his hand from my grip. I swipe the scalpel and cut off another of his fingers, which results in another screaming fit.
“Who sent you to intercept us, and what were your orders?” I yell into his face.
“I don‘t know,” he chokes out. “Arben talked with the guy who paid for the job.”
“Who is Arben?”
He mumbles something and closes his eyes. It looks like the adrenalin isn’t working.
I slap him again. “I said, who is Arben?”
“The driver.”
One of the guys I shot. Shit. “What did they want you to do?”
“Kill the man with the eyepatch.” He looks up at me and shudders. “It was just a job.”
“What about the woman?”
“The guy said she is not important.”
Not important. I take a deep breath, trying to keep myself from killing him right away. “Anything else?”
“N-n-no.”
“Do you know what the man who met with Arben looked like?”
“No.” His voice is barely audible now.
Fuck. I stand up and take the gun from the holster under my jacket. “Not important,” I spit out and shoot him in the head.
Turning toward Denis, I pin him with my gaze. “Make sure you are not late next time, Denis.”
He takes a step back. “Of course, boss.”
“Good. Clean up this mess.”
It’s almost midnight and I’m starting to worry. Where is Mikhail?
When Lena fell asleep, I went to the kitchen to tidy up the mess, and then took a quick shower, expecting him to be back by the time I finished. Did something happen?
I take one of his T-shirts that I stole and put it on. I’m finishing braiding my hair when I feel rough palms covering my hands. I release the strands, and my hair falls as I look up at Mikhail’s reflection in the mirror. He stands behind me and divides my hair into three sections again, then starts braiding my hair for me. His moves might be a little clumsy, but it looks like he knows what he’s doing.