NIKOLAI.
The hospital’s annual donor gala is exactly as tedious as I expected.
Crystal chandeliers, champagne that costs more per bottle than most people make in a month, Moscow’s medical elite discussing their summer dachas and Swiss ski chalets.
I’m stuck in a custom suit, playing the part of respectable cardiac surgeon.
I f*****g hate these things.
But Chief Volgin made it clear; attendance mandatory. The board is watching.
“Dr. Volkov.” Volgin materializes at my elbow with champagne. “Excellent turnout tonight.”
“Very impressive, sir.”
“The board members are all here. I expect both you and Dr. Morozov to make favorable impressions. Mingle. Be charming. Show them why you deserve Chief of Surgery.” He lowers his voice. “This is part of your evaluation. Both of you.”
“Understoo
