Page 17 of Trapped By the Bratva
This was a ticket to escape.
I only had one answer, and it was in the form of a question.
“When can I start?”
Becca smiled. “Yusef and I will come with you now to get whatever you want to bring.”
6
DMITRI
Istrained to reach the cup on my nightstand. Stretching over that far pulled on my shoulder, and the pain lanced through my entire back. Agony set in, and I cursed as my fingers touched the cup. It tipped and spilled. Water splashed out, streaking down to the floor just as the door to my room opened.
“Oh, dear.” Margie rushed in, Emily propped on her hip. “Dmitri…” she scolded, as though I were the same age as the toddler she carried. “What happened?”
“I think it’s fairly obvious what happened,” I replied.
She set Emily down and shot me a stern glare. It was that look. The kind mothers perfected. My mother died when I was young, but this maternal-prone housekeeper was a staple within the Bratva. She’d been working here in this mansion for as long as I could remember, and it was hard not to see her as a motherly figure.
“Don’t you use that tone with me,” she nagged. While she wiped up the spill, Emily climbed onto my bed to sit next to me.
“I—”
She pointed her finger at me and narrowed her eyes. “The next words out of your mouth had better be an apology.”
I rolled my eyes. “Sorry, Margie.” I had no right to get smart with her. She was like family, but that wasn’t saying much. I used the same attitude with my brothers too. No one was spared my moodiness, and it wasn’t as though I was trying to be an asshole. It just happened. It came out whether I wanted it to or not. There was simply too much darkness in my life to pretend to be happy or pleasant.
“Little Miss Emily’s keeping me company, and I thought we’d come by to see if you ate any of your dinner.” She smirked at the plates on the rolling cart. “Looks like you’re being difficult again.”
“I couldn’t cut the chicken,” I said, deadpan.
She sighed, pulling the tray over to cut it. “And the big, bad man you are, you will refuse to ask for help.” Pointing with the knife, she gestured at my phone on the nightstand. “You can text any of us in the house, you know.”
I sighed, watching her cut into the now-cold chicken. She was right. I’d be damned if I asked for help cutting my food. My arm and hand just didn’t have the strength to do that fine-motor skill. Erik bashed most of the bones in my fingers, two of which were severed by his filthy shears. And the long, wide gash on my arm was so deep my muscles were sliced.
Emily was fascinated by the web of scar tissue, and I kept my arm flat for her to trace her little fingers up and down the maze of stitched flesh. I’d always mind my mood with her. She was just a baby, a curious one at that. Maybe letting her see my scarsand disfigurations would set her up to avoid a habit of staring at people later in her life.
I’d lost most of the nerve endings there. All that skin was numb and dull, but the pressure of her small hand almost felt like a weak massage.
I would love one on my back.The reconstructive surgery on my rotator cuff and other injuries there felt too damn stiff.
Not that I’d ask for help.
“Asking for help is not a sign of weakness,” Margie reminded me as I struggled to get comfortable on the bed.
No matter how the pillows were positioned, they always slipped. And no matter how many were used to cushion my body, my back and shoulder felt like shit.
“Want me to adjust those?” Margie asked as she reached closer.
“It’s not your job to worry about that.”
“You need someone to knock some sense into you,” she grumbled, helping to fluff and rearrange the pillows.
“Oh, I wasn’t knocked around enough?” I retorted.
“I mean it figuratively. You are family, Dmitri. You matter. And if all of us want to worry about you, we will.”
Her words should’ve been a balm on my shitty mood, but the pain and anger had taken root too deeply. Until I could vent some of this fury and frustration, I’d remain festering in this darkness.
