Page 130 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

My body went hollow.

I ran after the stretcher. Shattered glass, blood, and fallen bodies blurred past on both sides. Matteo lay by the van. Isabella lay farther away, motionless.

The ambulance doors slammed shut in my face. Feodor grabbed my arm and shoved me toward the car beside it.

"Ma'am, you can't get in the ambulance."

"I'm going with him."

"The doctors need space." His voice stayed steady; only his clenched jaw gave him away. "Our car follows. You get to the OR faster this way."

I tried to argue, but I couldn't even stand straight.

Feodor draped his coat over my shoulders. The fabric brushed my hands, and I finally saw it—blood from my wrist to my fingertips.

Kiryan's blood.

My stomach seized. I doubled over, but my hands still wouldn't leave my belly.

"Breathe." Feodor held my shoulders. "For the baby."

In.

Out.

The car tore out of the warehouse. I stared at the flashing emergency lights ahead and prayed—first time in my life—to whatever god might be listening.

Don't take him.

I hadn't forgiven him yet.

I still had too much I hadn't said.

And worse—only when I might lose him did I finally admit it: even after he'd torn me apart, I'd never really stopped loving him.

The surgical light stayed on for six hours.

The doctor tried to examine me first. I refused twice. The third time, Olga cupped my face and forced me to look at her.

"You standing here doesn't help him on that table," she said, eyes red, voice hard as steel. "Make sure the baby is okay. That is the first thing Kiryan will ask when he wakes up."

She was right.

It made me want to cry even more.

The baby hadn't been hurt. My blood pressure ran high, so they wanted to monitor me. The second the doctor finished talking, I went straight back outside the OR.

Olga sat beside me, praying under her breath. Feodor stood at the end of the hall on the phone, blood smeared on his shirt cuff.

After midnight, he walked up to me.

"Matteo died. Isabella didn't make it either." He paused. "The warehouse got cleaned out. That agreement has no force. No one takes over Morozov's routes because of it."

I stared at my hands—washed over and over, but with pale red still trapped under my nails.

"Why did he go that far?"

Feodor went quiet for a beat.