Dmitri placed the novels down on the bed, allowing me to inspect them further. They were old and worn, with intricate designs detailing the covers and spines. Cyrillic words dotted the front.
“This aren’t from the library.”
“No,” he said. “They’re from my own private collection.”
Only a few were in English. Their titles read Father Frost, Vasilisa the Beautiful and The Golden Slipper.
“They’re fairy tales,” I said.
“Old Russian ones by Alexander Afanasyev.” Dmitri’s American accent dropped as he pronounced the author’s name.
I held up the ones in Russian. “I can’t read Russian.”
“Now it is a better time than any to learn.”
My eyes narrowed. “And why do I need to learn?”
Something sparked in his blue eyes. Nothing malicious...more amused. Well, as amused as this human icicle could ever be. “You know why, Elena.”
I had no answer to that.
When Dmitri left—with a warning to take care of his beloved novels—I settled back down in my chair and cracked Father Frost open. The interior had little images next to the words, beautiful artwork of snow-covered forests and peasant women adorned in jewels.
It was a miserable tale, a warning to women to be kind and polite, or else risk being frozen to death. I found the story interesting and it kept me and my nerves company as time wore on without word from the doctor.
Konstantin remained still. Every now he would flinch or his expression would warp, but then it would smooth back down into sleep.
His color grew fainter as time wore on, his pulse slowing.
I recognised death, especially when instrumented by poison. His symptoms were not unfamiliar to me. In fact, I began to check them off as time wore on; slow pulse, grey-tinted skin, shivering.
The list did allow me a hold on my sanity. Especially since I could feel myself tethering onto the edge of craziness, ready to snap at any moment.
He’s going to be fine, I told myself, but the comfort fell flat in my mind. When you didn’t believe yourself, something was seriously wrong.
When the doctor rang with his results, the entire household filed into the room. Scattered around on the floor and surfaces, it was Artyom who stood in the center and held the phone up, speaker as loud as it could go.
“We just got his bloods back,” the doctor sounded solemn. “There are high traces of glycoside, which is a poison found in oleander and—”
“Foxglove,” I breathed. I could see my father’s toppling onto the ground, clutching his heart. I could see the hole in Thaddeo’s head, the emptiness in his eyes. “Glycoside is found in foxglove.”
Artyom’s dark eyes snapped to me. “What is the cure?”
“Digoxin-Fab,” I answered.
The doctor confirmed my answer. “The amount in his blood is…highly concerning. In fact, it is a fatal amount. Even if he was given the cure…”
Hot bands wrapped around my heart, squeezing it painfully. Something like a sob or a scream was crawling up my throat.
The word karma wrestled its way into my brain.
Voices continued all around me.
“Where can we get some of this shit?” Roman demanded. “The hospital?”
“The hospital will have the resources to make the cure,” the doctor ventured. “But it takes time to manufacture. And they won’t just hand over digoxin-Fab without—”
Roman growled. “They will give us whatever we ask for. We fucking own the hospital.”
“It could raise questions,” Artyom said rationally. Panic had yet to take a hold of him—or maybe it had and he was just better than the rest of us at hiding it. “The last thing we need is our enemies knowing Kostya is sick. We need to find who did this and kill them.”
“We can deal with that after!” Roman hollered. “I can’t even believe this is a fucking discussion.”
“Artyom is right.” This icy statement came from Dmitri. “I want Kostya healthy again, but once one person outside of this family knows, our enemies know.”
Roman made a disbelieving noise.
“They’re right, Ro.” Danika’s voice came from the floor. She had brought her knees up to her chin, making herself look as small as possible. “There are protocols Kostya put in place for situations like this.” She wiped at her eyes with a sleeve.
“Fuck protocol,” Roman snapped. “I don’t care about Kostya’s back up plans or who inherits after him–fuck, I don’t even care who did this. He is sick, he needs a cure. Let’s fucking find it.”
“Once word gets out that Kostya is sick, that the Bratva is vulnerable, the entire organization will be in danger. We can’t