Page 116 of Hush, Little Baby

My calm was absolute as I looked up and met his gaze. “What do you want?”

“Oh, just simple things.” He gestured expansively, as if offering me a gift. “Access, territory, influence. I envision Greek and Russian operations merged under my authority.” His tone implied generosity.

“You took my boy, hurt him, and expect me to negotiate with you?”

Bogdanov grinned.

Before anyone realized what I’d decided, I fired. The crack of the shot silenced the room. The guard standing behind Bogdanov dropped where he stood. Chaos erupted in shouts, the smell of gunpowder thick in the air. I rose with my pistol trained on Bogdanov’s face.

“One opportunity,” I said. “Tell me where he is.”

He spluttered excuses, and when his hand twitched toward his holster, I shot him. Afterward, the remaining men were pretty compliant. Fear lubricates communication, after all. In minutes, I had an address. In fifteen, I’d assembled a dozen armed men. Thirty minutes later, we moved.

I close my eyes now and still see Charlie broken on the warehouse floor as I dropped to my knees. I can hear his rasping sobs, see how out of it he was.

I can hear him trying to tell me something about his bracelet just before losing consciousness. The dumb little friendship bracelet I’d made for him on his birthday.

He’d been wearing it underneath all the tape.

Bogdanov’s circle crumbled after his death. The older Russian leadership, craving stability, absorbed his men into quieter enterprises. The four men who tortured Charlie were executed before I took a step outside that warehouse.

My mother calls, “Nikolaus? Where did you go?”

I shake myself out of the memory and turn back toward her. “Nowhere. But maybe I will try to get some rest.”

She nods and passes by me to leave the room, patting my shoulder as she goes. “Taking care of yourself is taking care of him.”

She means it, too—a subtle rebuke, but also a mercy. I glance at the tray left behind, at the bowl of soup stenciled with a gloss of oil and herbs, the crust of bread dusted with sea salt. The food is meant for me, not for the boy hibernating in the bed, but she knows I’d outright refuse if she brought me a meal.

I’ll try to eat later. I just can’t right now. Instead, I count his breaths again, forearm against my forehead, waiting for the anxiety to crest.

I move to the bedside and kneel—awkward at my height, but necessary to scrutinize the purple-black bruise swelling his cheek, the darkened crescents beneath both eyes. I brush my fingers lightly across his brow. The heat is no longer feverish, mostly the lingering flush of sleep.

He stirs, eyelids fluttering. He blinks his eyes open, finding me immediately. His gaze still looks so glassy and faraway.

“Hey,” I whisper, hating the sound of my own voice—too raw, too much exposed nerve.

“Hi,” he whispers back. “Water?”

I reach for the cup on the nightstand and bring the straw to his lips. He sips, spilling a little, and I swipe the droplets off his chin with a finger.

“You know,” he said softly, voice thick with sleep, “I never got to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

He happens to look at the bedside table, following my movements as I set the glass back down.

His bracelet sits there, waiting for him.

Charlie’s eyes go wide, brimming with tears. “You saved it! I thought it would be ruined.”

I pick it up carefully. “Were you worried it’d be cut when getting the tape off?”

“Yeah.”

A lump tightens in my throat. I slide the bracelet back onto his wrist as he watches, tears quietly traveling down his cheeks.

“I really thought I was never coming home,” he murmurs, staring at the returned bracelet.