Then Oksana’s voice. Small. Wet.
“Spasibo. Spasibo. Spasibo.” Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
I press my forehead to the concrete.
Cristo. Cazzo. Madonna.
My eyes burn. They do not spill.
A sound at the steel door of my room. The hinges go. The door opens out.
Dante.
Black tactical shirt. Vest. The signet ring on his right hand under the glove. He crosses the room. Kneels in front of the chair. Pulls a knife from inside the vest. The blade comes up. The plastic at the wrists cuts apart. The plastic falls.
His hand goes to my shoulder.
“You’re out, brother.” Quiet. The same quiet he used the night Mama died.
My mouth opens. The first thing comes out hoarse.
“Sokolov. Yuri Sokolov. Velikov.”
“We have him.”
“Three of them. At least.”
“Five. All down.”
“Oksana.”
“Renzo has her. The medic is at the stretcher. She’s alive. Baby’s heartbeat is steady.”
“How long was I in here.”
“An hour tops.”
One hour. I stand. My legs are unsteady. Dante’s hand goes to my elbow. I let him keep it. For the first time since I was a boy I let my older brother steady me.
We walk to the door together.
The hallway is concrete. Bulbs at the ceiling. Five of Morozov’s men down at the end of the hall. Neat shots. Marco’s work.
Oksana is on a stretcher between Renzo and a medic. Pregnant. Pale. Conscious. The bruise at her right cheekbone is fresh. Her hands have not moved from her belly. Flat. Protecting. The wedding-ring chain at her throat is twisted around the necklace chain. The medic fixes the chain. Oksana does not notice.
Oksana is looking at me.
The medic kneels at the side of the stretcher with a small monitor. Presses it to the side of Oksana’s belly. The monitor finds the heartbeat inside a beat. The baby is alive. The medic looks up at Renzo. Renzo’s shoulders go down half an inch.
Oksana’s hand comes off her belly. Reaches for me.
I cross to her. Touch her wrist.
“Vy doma.” You are home.
Her eyes close for one breath. Open. Her mouth opens.
“He said her name. Mila. He said her sister’s name. Yelena. He laughed.”