The Don's Innocent Collateral

Chapter 12

Amelia slept for fourteen hours. She woke up to sunlight streaming through a gap in the heavy curtains. The digital clock on the nightstand read 11:00 AM. She lay perfectly still for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, testing the feeling in her body. She slowly opened and closed her right fist. Normal. The numbness had disappeared again. For now.

She dragged herself out of bed and into the en suite, turning the rainfall shower on as hot as she could stand it. She stood under the spray until the water washed away the lingering chill of the mountain rain and the suffocating tension of yesterday. Wrapped in a towel, she walked into the massive frosted-glass closet. She bypassed the heavy sweaters and silk blouses, pulling on a simple, fitted black tank top and a pair of dark denim jeans. She found a pair of soft, expensive leather slides on the bottom shoe rack and slipped them on her feet. The estate felt different in the daylight. The chaotic energy from the perimeter breach had settled into a cold, hyper-vigilant hum. Guards stood at every junction, their postures rigid, but Amelia ignored them. She headed straight for the east wing. She needed coffee. Dimitri wasn't at the center island. Instead, an older woman with iron-gray hair pulled into a severe bun was standing near the sink. Beside her on a stool was a little girl of about five or six, crying quietly and clutching a blood-soaked paper towel to a badly scraped elbow. "Stop squirming, Mila," the older woman scolded in heavily accented English, trying to dab at the cut with a wet cloth. "I told you not to run on the courtyard stones. Let me clean it." "It hurts!" the little girl cried, pulling her arm back. Amelia walked into the kitchen. "You're just pushing the dirt deeper into the scrape with that rag." The older woman stopped. She stood up straight, her dark eyes sharp and highly critical as she took in Amelia’s presence. She didn't look like a maid; she carried herself with the heavy, unbothered authority of someone who ran the entire staff. "I have raised five children and patched up twice as many guards in this house," the woman said coldly, her chin lifting. "I know how to clean a scrape. Mind your business." Amelia was completely tapped out. She didn't have the patience to navigate the hierarchy of the estate's staff today. "I don't really give a f**k how many kids you've raised," Amelia said flatly. "The cut has gravel in it. Where is the first aid kit?" The older woman froze, her eyes widening in absolute shock at the sheer, blunt disrespect. On the stool, Mila sniffled, wiping her nose with her good hand, and looked down at Amelia with wide, tear-filled eyes. "What's a f**k?" the little girl asked innocently. Amelia froze. A sudden spike of mortification cut straight through her exhaustion. She closed her eyes for a split second, then slowly looked up at the older woman, giving her a deeply apologetic, embarrassed wince. The severe, icy judgment on the woman's face faltered. The corner of her mouth twitched—fighting a losing battle against a smile—before she cleared her throat, pointed to a drawer beneath the far counter, and looked away to arrange the napkins. "It's... a medical term," Amelia lied smoothly, pulling the plastic kit from the drawer and kneeling right beside the little girl's stool. "It’s a word adults use when they are very tired and forget their manners. Okay, let me see that elbow. This is going to sting for exactly three seconds, and then it’s over. Count to three with me." As Amelia quickly and expertly cleaned the gravel from the wound, she didn't know she was being watched.

Upstairs, Nicolai sat behind his desk in his study.

A secure window on his laptop streamed the estate's camera feeds. He switched from the courtyard to the east-wing kitchen feed. Amelia was just walking through the doorway.

He unmuted the feed.

Nicolai listened to the exchange. When the little girl asked her question and Amelia froze in pure embarrassment, a faint, genuine smile touched the corner of Nicolai’s mouth. It softened the harsh, violent lines of his face entirely.

Then, he realized what he was doing. The smile vanished instantly. His jaw tightened, the familiar coldness settled back over his features.

He leaned closer to the screen, his dark eyes shifting focus from Amelia's face to her hands. He watched her pop the latch on the plastic first aid kit. She did it entirely with her left hand. When she reached for the antiseptic wipe, her right hand hovered for a fraction of a second, stiff and hesitant, before her left hand took over to tear the packet open.

Nicolai picked up his cell phone and dialed a number not saved in his contacts. It rang twice. "Mr. Volkov," a man’s voice answered. He sounded breathless, picking up halfway through the second ring. "Voss," Nicolai said, his voice a low hum. He kept his eyes locked on the screen as Amelia taped the bandage down. "I need answers."

"About?"

"A woman. Her right hand keeps giving out. She's had dizzy spells. No visible injury."

Silence.

"That could be a lot of things."

"Then find out which one."

"I'll need to examine her."

"You'll examine her when I say. Until then, make a list."

"Yes, Boss."

"Listen to me very carefully, Doctor," Nicolai said, his voice dropping to a cold quiet whisper. "If I hear a single word of this outside of this phone call...." Nicolai let the silence stretch.

"Yes, Boss," Voss rasped, the fear choking his words. "Not a word. I swear it." Nicolai ended the call. He tossed the phone onto the desk and returned his attention to the feed.

Down in the kitchen, Amelia was standing up, giving the little girl a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

He didn't know what was wrong with her yet, but he intended to find out.