Chapter 50 Fixing him
Aleksander POV
Driving through the night, we travelled as fast as possible without alerting the police. The road was full of puddles splashing against our convoy of SUVS. Leaving Marietta, we made sure we left no trail and that we weren't being followed. Dimitri was lying in the back of our SUV; I had lowered one of the rows and laid him down with his head on a pillow. His body, broken, swollen, and bleeding, almost made him unrecognizable. I've known him since we were 12, and he's been my right-hand man for almost 13 years. He is my brother, my second hand man, and my confidant. Viktor will pay for this.
Grinding my teeth, I exhaled, trying to settle my nerves. Wiping the speck of blood off my cheek, I contemplate all the ways I'm going to destroy him. I've ignored his little tantrums the past twenty years and let him have his little "Empire." But after what happened yesterday, and after I had to go and rescue Dimitri, all bets were off.
"Boss, we're nearing the safe house," the driver told me with urgency. We were going to one of the ten safehouses I have located within a fifty-mile radius of Atlanta. People don't usually have that many safehouses, as it becomes a significant liability. Still, the one thing I have learned is that it's better to have a safe place in reach to go to than risk driving to kingdom come in an emergency.
Dimitri started stirring, trying to move his arms to reach for me. "Shhhhhhh," I whisper to him, "please don't move, Dimitri. We're almost to the safehouse, where we're going to fix you up." I promised him, one way or another, I would make sure he's alright. His moaning got louder and louder, and I knew that his pain was getting out of control. One thing I have learned after all these years is that when a person's pain level is high as fuck, their blood pressure spikes through the roof. I can't have his blood pressure out of whack right now. Luckily, one of my men, who was ex-Spetsnaz (a.k.a. Russian Special Forces), brought an emergency field medical kit stocked with anything and everything you might need to stabilize a patient in the field. Rummaging through the bag, I found the morphine and opened it up. The morphine was inside a sponge-like material connected to a plastic stick. It sticks inside a patient's mouth and is administered orally.
I reached down and stuck the morphine inside his cheek. Less than two minutes later, he visibly started to relax. The driver announced we were arriving, which was about damn time. I knew my men would conduct a security sweep before we exited the vehicle. Once I got the notification on my phone, I opened the door.
Two of my soldiers were there waiting, and each one grabbed Dimitri on either side and began to carry him inside the glass-and-wrought-iron-inlay door. Blood was dripping down the corridor towards the medical suite I had at each of my major safehouses. There were only two safehouses I had that didn't have a full-on surgical suite.
I called Dr. Savin on the way, and he was already inside waiting for us. He was an elderly man in his 70s, and despite his lucrative career as one of Atlanta's top hospitalists for years, the retirement he was collecting just didn't cut it. So he had no problem being on my payroll and zipping his lips to keep it secret.
"Hurry, Pakhan," Dr. Savin said, rushing towards me, pointing at the metal surgical table. "Lay him down quick and hand me those scissors after you wash your hands."
I quickly washed my hands and pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves. Passing him the scissors, I watched him go to work. Cutting away his clothes, leaving him just in his underwear. He quickly started to examine his wounds with expert efficiency, taking large squares of gauze and wiping away the caked blood for a better look.
Looking at Dimitri while the Dr. worked on him made bile rise in my throat. His entire body was covered in bruises ranging from dark purple to faint yellow spots.
Noticing the doctor examining his head had a concerned look on his face sent a sharp pain to my stomach. "Dr., how does he look?" I was trying to sound as calm as I could in this situation. The Dr. looks at me, contemplating his words carefully before speaking, "His body is bruised as you can see," pointing up and down his body. He has 4 broken ribs. But the most concerning issue is the blow to his head. As far as I can tell, he doesn't have brain damage; it seems to be more of a major concussion."
Relief consumes me, even though I know it's bad; it could have been so much worse. Clearing his throat, the Dr. continues, "He needs rest, tight bandages around his ribs with minimum movement, anti-inflammatory medication, a small dose of aspirin to prevent clotting, pain medicine, but most of all, if ever receives another hit to the head, he will sustain permanent brain damage."
A feeling of relief, sadness, and rage overwhelmed me. Gripping the extra gauze in my still gloved hands, I stayed by Dimitri's side after the Dr. finished getting him cleaned up, bandaged, and medication given by IV.
I sat there for probably an hour and a half until I felt certain that he was stable enough for me to leave his side, even for a minute. I knew in my head he was hooked up to monitors that would tell me if something was wrong, but I couldn't trust that.
Walking down the hall, I stepped into my office. Everything was generic, like copy & paste at each safe house: the same brown, cheap desk, black office chair, and space for my laptop. No pictures on the wall or maps were to be seen anywhere. I made sure that if they were ever taken over, the less information anyone could find, the better.
One of my men had brought my suitcase from the SUV. Pressing buttons and then scanning my fingerprint snapped it open with a loud click. Taking out my laptop, I hastily turned it on and let it connect to the secure VPN. Pulling up my email, I quickly sent a brief email to Henry, informing him that we had Dimitri and, most importantly, that my father was flying in from Russia. Shuddering, I can only imagine the havoc my father's appearance will bring. Sitting on the council for the Bratva heads in Moscow, he was not a man to question or threaten. Trying to tell my father to calm down or not come would be like telling a woman, "To just calm down." It never worked.
After sending the emails and double-checking Dimitri's stats, I poured myself some whiskey, and I let my mind drift back to Maria. She was fine, she was safe, but most importantly, she was now mine. I don't think she realizes the full extent of my feelings for her yet.
I let my forehead fall against the desk, surrendering to the pull of sleep as Maria's face haunted my thoughts, sharp and undeniable.