chest. He doesn’t break down into tears like he did before, which is a bit more concerning. At least when he did that, I knew how he was feeling. I could see how the grief still affected him. Now, he’s gone silent, rocking in my arms without a word. What I wouldn’t give for just a glimpse into his mind.
“I want to go lie down,” he says quietly.
“Okay,” I say, pulling back to look at him. “I’ll be in my room if you need me, okay?”
He nods, then hops down from the chair and runs off to his bedroom. The poor thing wants to be alone, and I can’t blame him. If I lost my dad now, I’d be a wreck. It’s not fair, and it makes me mad that things played out this way. Nikolas deserves only good things in life, not this crappy hand he’s been dealt.
I make quick work cleaning up the bowls. I’ve let oatmeal sit before and I definitely don’t want to deal with scrubbing dried oats off dishes for an hour or so. The entire time, my mind wanders back to what Nikolas told me.
Were his parents killed because they were involved in the Morozov Bratva? Was it a freak accident that took them away from him? The one thing I hope is that Nikolas doesn’t know either. He doesn’t need to know how they died, at least not yet.
While Nikolas is in his room, I make a quick stop into the library to grab a new book and carry it upstairs. That has become my usual pastime since I discovered the section of Austen books just waiting to be read. I plop down on my bed and flip through the pages, submerging myself in a different world.
And, for just a little while, life is simple.
One hundred and fifty pages into the book, I hear a scream from downstairs, followed by a cry for help.
My heart leaps into my throat and I jump from the bed, running downstairs to see what’s wrong. Smoke streams out from the kitchen, and my blood runs cold.
When I make it inside, I see Nikolas clutching his wrist, his hand badly burned. Behind him, there’s a large fire in the pan on the stove.
“Oh my God, what happened?” I cry, rushing to his side.
“I tried to make French toast like you,” he says, crying as he holds his hand. “I tried to put water on the fire, but it made it worse.”
I look at the fire and know immediately that it’s grease. He threw water on it and it probably grew even larger, burning him. I run to the fridge to look for the baking soda, but there isn’t any. I can’t find a box in the cabinets either. Trying not to panic, I begin rifling through the drawers to find the proper lid. I start to cover the fire when a flame licks the back of my hand and I pull back immediately, dropping the lid.
“Shit!” I cry. I snatch it up and try again, ignoring the searing pain in my hand. More flames burn me, but I push through it, covering the fire with the lid. It dies out almost immediately, but the damage has been done. My hand looks like Nikolas’s, but I’m not worried about me at the moment.
I have to get him to the hospital. Nikolas cries nonstop, even when I scoop him up and hurry out to one of Matvei’s cars. He’s going to kill me for taking one of them, but I don’t care. Right now, the only thing that matters is getting to the hospital and getting him looked at. On the way out of the door, I grab a set of keys.
It takes no time to get Nikolas settled in the seat, even if he won’t stop crying. “It’s okay,” I say, trying to soothe him. I catch sight of the massive red burn on my own hand and cringe. “We’re gonna be okay, Niko.”
I run around to the other side of the car and clamber inside, buckling myself and using my one good hand to put the key in the ignition. The car roars to life, and I waste no time backing out. I have to get to the hospital.
I have to make sure that Nikolas is okay.
16
Matvei
I come home after meeting with a few associates. For a moment, I’m sure I’m misreading the situation. Because it looks an awful lot like no one is home.