Rosa’s face filled the screen. Basement. Collar. Eyes empty.
“Your sister is not in Switzerland, Koroleva,” The Wolf said. “She’s with me. Moscow. Basement. Come alone. Or she dies at hour zero. — W”
Video ended.
Dante was already turning the helicopter. One hand. Other hand bloody tourniquet.
“Hospital,” he said.
“No,” I said. “Moscow.”
“You’re not going alone.”
“She’s my sister,” I said. “I’m not leaving her.”
1:15 AM. Manhattan General. Private Room.
Three bullets. Shoulder. Rib. Missed his heart by an inch.
“Will he live?” I asked the surgeon.
“If he stays,” she said. “If he doesn’t tear his stitches chasing Bratva in Moscow.”
Dante was awake. Morphine in his IV. Not enough.
“Rosa,” he mumbled.
“Safe,” I lied.
“You’re going,” he said. Not a question.
“Yes.”
“Alone.”
“
