Viktor barked out a laugh. “Sure you are. And I’m the Pope.”
After that, Alena barely left Danylo’s bedside. She found a clean rag and a bucket of warm water and carefully washed soot and dried blood from his face. Then she cleaned his hands—the same hands that had probably killed men, and the same hands that had held her firmly at the waist as they ran through fire.
Near dawn, exhausted, she fell asleep in the chair beside him with one hand resting on his forearm.
She woke to the feeling of fingers moving gently through her hair.
Alena jerked awake. Danylo was looking at her. His skin was still pale from blood loss, but his eyes were open and clear.
“Thank God,” she breathed. “You’re alive.”
“Apparently,” he said weakly.
She smiled through tears. “I was already considering stealing your watch and making a run for it.”
He tried to laugh and winced, catching his side. “Where are we?”
“Viktor’s basement clinic. Somewhere in Borshchahivka.”
Danylo nodded slowly. “Then we’re safe for the moment.”
He looked at her face—the dried blood on her dress, the dark circles under her eyes, the way she was still holding his hand.
“You stayed.”
“I told you,” Alena said softly. “I don’t need a corpse in my work area.”
His hand moved from her hair to her cheek, his thumb brushing her jaw. “You saved me again. Why?”
“Because,” she whispered, leaning into his touch despite herself. “Maybe I’m developing a taste for bad decisions.”
It was a lie, and they both knew it. It wasn’t danger she was drawn to. It was him. The way he looked at her as if she were the only person in the room. The way he had shielded her even while bleeding.
“Come here,” he said hoarsely, patting the edge of the bed.
She hesitated, then climbed carefully onto the narrow cot beside him, avoiding the IV lines. He wrapped his good arm around her and pulled her close. She could hear his heart beating, steady and strong.
“We’ll find them,” he murmured into her hair. “Nikita. Rudenko. All of them. I’ll finish it.”
The tenderness of the embrace clashed with the brutality of the words.
“I know,” Alena said, closing her eyes. “But not tonight. Tonight, just sleep.”
For the first time in her life, Alena Lynnyk felt safe in the arms of a monster.
Danylo’s recovery was slow and fueled by cold rage. They stayed in the basement clinic for three days while Viktor brought greasy takeout and updates from the outside world.
“The streets are saying Danylo Moroz is dead,” Viktor told them on the second day, tossing a newspaper onto the bed. “Your pet snake Nikita has already taken your seat. He’s calling a summit of all five families to consolidate power.”
“Where?” Danylo asked.
“Your penthouse.”
Danylo stared at the ceiling, jaw tight. “So he’s drinking my wine, sitting in my chair, and pretending he built what I built.”
“The upside,” Alena said as she peeled an orange for him, “is that he thinks you’re dead. And dead men are hard to kill twice.”
Danylo pushed himself upright, wincing as the stitches pulled. “I need weapons. And men I can trust.”
“You don’t have men anymore,” Viktor said bluntly through cigarette smoke. “Nikita’s been cleaning house. Your loyal people are gone. Ilya too. They pulled his body from the Dnipro this morning.”
Danylo closed his eyes for one long second. Grief flickered across his face and disappeared.
“Then I do it myself.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Alena snapped, dropping the orange peel on the tray. “You can barely make it to the bathroom without cursing. You’re not an action hero. You’re a wounded man with a revenge problem.”
“And what do you suggest?” Danylo shot back. “That I let him keep everything?”
“No,” Alena said, standing. “I suggest we stop playing by his rules.”
She walked to a whiteboard Viktor used for medical notes and picked up a marker. She drew a rough square.
“This is your penthouse,” she said. “He’ll have extra security, locked elevators, armed men on the roof, guards in the lobby. You can’t storm it head-on.”
