Ruthless Bratva King (New York Russian Mafia Kings #1)

40. Elena

40

ELENA

T he car headlights sweep over the abandoned warehouse, graffiti-covered walls glaring back at me.

My stomach churns as I spot Dmitri leaning against the grimy exterior, his figure barely illuminated by a flickering streetlamp as he waves weakly at me.

"Dmitri!" I call out, rushing toward him.

His face is pale and lined with exhaustion. His suit is in tatters, the left sleeve shredded. His usual aura of command is replaced by something vulnerable yet still somehow composed.

"You bring the sewing kit?" he asks gruffly as I reach him.

"What happened?" My voice trembles with panic as I reach for his arm, but he gently brushes me off.

"Later," he says, his tone final. “Get it now , Elena."

Reluctantly, I run back to the car and retrieve the small sewing kit. When I return, he’s already unbuttoning his jacket with a grimace. His movements are slow, his strength clearly waning.

"Help me with this," he mutters, and I step forward, sliding the jacket off his broad shoulders.

As I peel the fabric away, my stomach turns at the sight of the deep gash stretching diagonally across his back. The wound is jagged, angry, and still oozing blood.

"This is insane, Dmitri. You need a doctor!" I plead.

He looks at me, his steel-gray eyes softening just a fraction. "Elena, you’re tough enough for this. Open the vodka."

My hands shake as I unscrew the cap, the sharp scent of alcohol biting at my nose. He takes the bottle, pouring a generous amount over the wound. He doesn’t even flinch, though his jaw tightens.

"Sterilize the needle," he says, handing the bottle back to me.

I fumble with the kit, pulling out the needle and thread. My vision blurs slightly as I soak the needle in vodka, my mind screaming at the absurdity of the situation.

"I can’t do this," I say in a small voice.

"Just take your time," he says, his voice calm despite the circumstances. "I’ll guide you."

With trembling hands, I thread the needle and kneel behind him. The first stitch is the hardest; my fingers feel clumsy, and my stomach churns at the sight of the needle piercing his skin.

He lets out a low hiss but doesn’t move. "Good," he says, his voice low and steady. "Keep going."

When I finally tie off the last stitch, I sit back on my heels, my hands shaking and my heart pounding.

"It’s done," I whisper, barely able to meet his gaze.

He turns slightly, glancing over his shoulder at the crude but effective row of stitches. "You did well, Elena."

I want to argue, to tell him how reckless this is, but the warmth in his tone silences me. For a moment, I feel a flicker of pride amidst the chaos.

"What now?" I ask, my voice shaky but steadier than before.

"You drive," Dmitri says, pulling his shirt back on with a wince. “I finish the vodka.”