Page 71 of Bratva's Mercy
He was as bad as the others.
Maybe worse.
“You brought him to me so I could watch him die?” I snapped. “Sergei, you are really heartless.”
“What good is me having a heart since you don’t want it?” He let go of the towel, and before I could maintain the pressure myself, he took hold of my face. “Leo, don’t you think you’re a little bit too cruel to me? I grew a heart for you, and you rejected it. I threw it aside, and now you want me to have one again.” His thumb moved along my cheek, stroking my skin. “You just wished me dead a minute earlier. A dead man doesn’t have a heart, Leo. So do you want me to live so I can give you this heart of mine or not?”
My mouth went dry as if filled with cotton balls, and I tried to find enough moisture to swallow. “That’s not what I meant. Will you take him to a hospital or not?”
“I asked you a question.” I tried to shuffle back, but hejust moved forward, blocking my escape. He leaned forward until a mere inch separated our faces. “Do you want me to have a heart knowing it’ll be just for you?”
A shaky breath left me. “If we don’t take him to a hospital now, he will die.”
“Then let him die.” His hand switched to grip my jaw, and he leaned forward, pressing his lips to mine.
“I…can’t.” I pressed my palms against his chest and tried to push him away, but he didn’t budge, just kept pressing kisses to my lips. As far as kisses went, they were tame but eager, as if he was trying to convince me.
“Don’t be like this, Sergei. I—I can’t have this place remind me of another death.”
He stilled, easing back to observe me. “It’s a simple question.”
“But it’s not.” Tears misted my eyes as I pleaded with him to understand. “I’m afraid to want your heart. You’re not a good man, Sergei, and that scares me. If you want me to accept your heart, why don’t you show me that you actually have one? Take him to a hospital.”
“No.”
Disappointment landed heavily and with finality in my gut. So much for thinking I had some influence over him. It was the reminder I needed that whenever he gave in to me, it was because he wanted to. I was hopeless against him.
“But you can treat him.”
I huffed a breath of frustration. “I don’t have the equipment necessary to deal with something like this, and he’s lost so much blood. He’s going to need a transfusion. I don’t know what blood type he is, and I don’t have any blood supply.”
“I’ll take you somewhere you’ll have all of that.”
“But—”
“No hospitals, Leo. Do you want to save him or not?”
He knew damn well I wouldn’t be able to walk away.
Sergei refused to remove the ropes even though the man was unconscious. When I mentioned riding in the back to provide medical care in case it was needed, the way he looked at me alone had me climbing into the passenger seat next to him without arguing.
He drove quickly, running stoplights since there were hardly any other vehicles at this time of the morning. I listened to him make a couple of calls, but they were all in Russian, so I didn’t understand a thing. Other than those two calls, we drove in silence. Sergei seemed to be in a bad mood, and I didn’t want to trigger him further in case he took it out on the dying man in the back.
Would he even be alive when we arrived?
Sergei brought us to a remote warehouse that looked nothing out of the ordinary on the outside. A black sedan was parked outside, and one of Morozov’s men, whom I recognized from when Wren was at the hospital, stepped out.
When we parked, I was hesitant to get out of the truck. This was exactly what I wanted. To get close to Morozov and his people, find out all I could about his operation, and take him down. Knowing where this place was located was a step in the right direction. Yet, I had this sinking feeling in my stomach.
“Leo, let’s go.” Sergei had come around to open the door for me. He held out a hand, and I knew it was about more than helping me out of the truck. He’d decided to let go of whatever I’d said back there that pissed him off.
Probably you telling him you want to see him dead.
My cheeks burned hotly, and I reached out to take his hand. Morozov’s other man had picked up the guy from the truck bed and was carrying him toward the sectional door, which opened up in front of us. As soon as I was on solid ground, I dropped Sergei’s hand and ran after the patient.
All I’d learned about the Mafia was from movies, so I wasexpecting something crude. Dim lighting. Rusted tables. Maybe a first aid kit thrown in a corner, but I was dead wrong. This was the opposite.
The space was partitioned off from the rest of the warehouse, sealed behind glass and steel like a private medical suite. Bright surgical lights flooded the room, reflecting off immaculate stainless-steel surfaces. Cabinets lined the walls, stocked and labeled with necessities—medications, sterile packs, instruments, all arranged neatly.
