Bratva Daddy, page 26
I let the tears fall then—not forced but real, terror and rage mixing into something that probably looked like the breakthrough they wanted.
"I want to get better," I lied, making my voice small and broken. "But please, not ECT. Give the medications more time. I'm trying so hard to understand what's real."
"The medications aren't enough," Viktor said firmly. "Dr. Harrison, you've seen cases like this before. The longer we wait, the more entrenched these delusions become."
"I'm afraid I agree," Dr. Harrison said with what he probably thought was compassion. "ECT has an excellent success rate for treatment-resistant delusions. You'll be sedated, Clara. You won't feel anything. And when you wake up, the world will start making sense again."
Their version of sense.
Viktor paused by my chair as the others filed out, his hand settling on my shoulder with weight that felt like ownership.
"This is for your own good, darling," he said softly. "Someday, when you're better, you'll thank me for saving you from that monster."
I didn't respond.
The water stains on my ceiling where a map of nowhere. Seventeen distinct patches, I'd counted, some shaped like countries I'd never visit, others like bruises spreading across cheap acoustic tile. From my narrow bed with its plastic-covered mattress that crinkled with every breath, I could trace each one's borders.
Four hours since the panel. My wrists still showed faint marks from the restraints they used during "aggressive episodes"—their term for when I'd tried to explain about the Kozlovs, about my father's bribes, about the truth they'd labeled psychosis.
The door clicked open with that particular sound of magnetic locks disengaging. Not meal time—I'd forced down the gray meat and soggy vegetables an hour ago.
But this wasn't my usual orderly. This man moved differently—younger, maybe thirty, with the kind of controlled movements that suggested he paid attention to his body. Dark hair, forgettable face, but something in his eyes that made my breath catch.
"Water change," he announced, though my pitcher was still three-quarters full. His voice carried just the faintest trace of accent—Russian, but barely there, like someone who'd worked hard to lose it.
I stayed still on the bed, watching him through half-closed eyes as he moved to the small table by the window. He turned toward the bed, and that's when his phone slipped from his breast pocket. It hit my mattress with a soft thump, screen face up, already unlocked.
"Oops," he said loudly, clearly, for the benefit of the camera that couldn't quite see the bed from its angle. Then, quieter, barely moving his lips: "Thirty seconds. Delete after."
He moved to retrieve it with deliberate slowness, fumbling like someone embarrassed by clumsiness while giving me time. My fingers shook as I grabbed the phone, muscle memory finding the voice message icon even as my heart tried to pound its way out through my ribs.
One new message. No name, just a timestamp from six minutes ago.
I pressed play with my thumb, holding the phone close to my ear, and nearly sobbed at the voice that came through the tinny speaker.
"Little one." Alexei's voice, rough like he hadn't been sleeping, tight with controlled emotion. "Daddy's coming. Remember what I taught you about being brave. Today is the 24th. The operation is going ahead. Tomorrow, when you hear sirens, that's your signal. Ivan's been inside their systems for days. The Kozlovs are going down, your father with them. Little Alex is waiting for you."
The message ended.
The orderly was still fumbling, buying me time. I deleted the message, cleared the recent apps, set the phone exactly as it had been. When he finally retrieved it, our eyes met for just a moment.
"Spasibo," he whispered, so quiet I almost thought I'd imagined it. I recognized the word—thank you in Russian.
Then he was gone, the door clicking shut with that magnetic finality, leaving me alone with the knowledge that Alexei was alive, free, and coming for me.
I pressed my face into the pillow to muffle the sob that tore from my throat—relief and fear and desperate hope all tangled together. He was coming. Today was the 24th. I’d lost track of time. Tomorrow. I just had to wait until tomorrow.
But ECT was scheduled for eight in the morning. I needed to buy time, create a delay, something to push the procedure past whenever those sirens would start.
That night, I played the perfect patient. Took my pills from the night nurse with practiced compliance, tucking them under my tongue while I sipped water, nodding when she checked my mouth with a penlight. The moment she left, I spat them into my palm—two Haldol, one Ativan, three of something I didn't recognize.
In the bathroom, I didn't palm them like usual. These went straight into the toilet, flushed away with evidence of my non-compliance. If they tested my blood tomorrow, they'd know I hadn't been taking anything, but tomorrow might be too late anyway.
I checked my stash behind the loose tile—my own personal poison collection. Enough to cause serious problems if taken all at once.
The plan formed like words on a page, clear and inevitable. I’d pretend to take all the pills. Leave the caplets as evidence. I’d tell them I’d overdosed, and they'd have to stabilize me before they could run electricity through my brain. And somewhere in that chaos, when those sirens started, I'd find my way to freedom.
I tucked the pills back behind the tile except for six—enough to dissolve in water for the appearance of a suicide attempt without the full commitment. Those I hid in the hem of my pillowcase, ready for morning's performance.
Back in bed, I stared at those seventeen water stains and thought about Alexei's voice, rough with exhaustion but certain. "Daddy's coming," he'd said, and despite everything—the psychiatric ward, the planned ECT, my father's suffocating control—I believed him.
The Pakhan of the Volkov bratva had promised to come for me, and Alexei Volkov kept his promises.
Five forty-three AM according to the ancient clock above my door, its red numbers bleeding into the pre-dawn darkness like a wound. The morning shift would arrive in seventeen minutes, their sneakers squeaking on industrial linoleum, their voices carrying discussions of weekend plans and patient assignments. At six-fifteen, someone would check on the woman scheduled for ECT at eight. They'd find their compliant patient in crisis.
I worked quickly but carefully, aware that desperation could ruin the performance. First, the pills from behind the loose tile—handfuls of medication they'd thought was coursing through my bloodstream, keeping me docile and confused. I scattered most across the floor near my bed, like I'd dropped them in haste or weakness. Several went on the nightstand, a few crushed into powder as if I'd been trying to make them easier to swallow.
Six pills went into the paper cup of water by my bed, dissolving into cloudy bitterness. I drank half, enough to stain my lips and tongue, enough that they'd smell it on my breath. The rest I poured down my chin, letting it soak into the thin hospital gown. The fabric clung to my skin, cold and medicinal.
The hardest part was making myself vomit. But three days of hospital food and anxiety had left my stomach ready to revolt at the slightest provocation. I thought about the gray meat from last night's dinner, the way it had smelled like formaldehyde and disappointment. My stomach clenched, and I bent over the small trash bin, bringing up bile and the dissolved medication in a convincing display of overdose.
I left the bin where they'd see it, evidence of my body rejecting the poison I'd fed it. Then I arranged myself on the floor by the door—not dramatically sprawled but crumpled, like I'd been trying to get help before collapsing. One hand stretched toward the door handle, the other clutching my stomach. My hair fell across my face, hiding the calculation in my eyes.
Six-oh-two. I could hear footsteps in the hallway now, the morning shift taking over from night nurses who'd been counting down to escape. Someone laughed at something—probably Marco, the orderly who always had a joke about the Knicks losing. Normal morning sounds that were about to become chaos.
"Morning rounds," someone called out. "Henderson, you take the east wing. I'll check on our ECT patient."
Footsteps approaching my door. The magnetic lock disengaging. Light from the hallway spilling across my carefully staged scene.
"Check on Petrov—" The voice cut off mid-word. Then, sharp and loud: "Oh my God! She's OD'ing! Get the crash cart!"
I kept my breathing shallow, erratic. The nurse—Patricia, I recognized her voice—dropped to her knees beside me, fingers finding my pulse while she shouted for backup.
"How many did she take?" Patricia's hands moved over me, checking pupils, feeling for fever. "Where did she even get these?"
More footsteps, running now. The crash cart's wheels squeaking as someone sprinted with it. Dr. Harrison's voice cutting through the chaos: "What the hell happened here?"
"Overdose," Patricia reported, still checking my vitals. "Looks like she's been hoarding meds. There must be three days worth, maybe more."
"She's been compliant," another nurse protested. "I watched her take them every dose—"
"Clearly, you didn’t," Dr. Harrison said, and I heard the fear under his professional tone. A patient overdosing before a scheduled procedure would trigger reviews, investigations, questions about supervision and protocol.
"We need to move her to medical," someone decided—Dr. Patel, the attending physician who actually seemed to care about patients as people. "Cancel ECT. She's too unstable for anesthesia right now."
"Get a gurney," Dr. Harrison snapped. "Start IV fluids, push Narcan just in case there are opioids involved. Someone call her father—"
"I'll do it," Patricia said, but her tone suggested she'd rather eat glass.
They transferred me to the gurney with surprising gentleness, Patricia holding my head steady while two orderlies lifted my body. The IV went in smooth—Patricia had good hands, found the vein on the first try even with my arm limp as overcooked pasta.
"Baby, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand," Patricia whispered, and I almost did because she sounded genuinely worried. But unconscious people didn't respond to requests, so I stayed limp, let them wheel me through hallways that smelled like disinfectant and despair.
The medical wing was different—brighter lights, better equipment, windows that actually opened more than two inches. They transferred me to a bed with real sheets instead of plastic-covered mattresses, hooked me to monitors that tracked everything from heart rate to oxygen saturation.
"How did this happen?" The voice that cut through the medical chatter was sharp with fury, and my body tensed involuntarily before I forced it back to limpness. Viktor had arrived, and he was beyond angry—he was scared. "She was supposed to be monitored! She was supposed to be watched every moment!"
"Mr. Petrov, I understand your concern—" Dr. Harrison started, but Viktor wasn't interested in platitudes.
"You understand nothing! My daughter was scheduled for treatment this morning, treatment that would have helped her recover from her delusions, and instead she's—what? Trying to kill herself with medications you people gave her?"
"We're investigating how she obtained—"
"Investigating?" Viktor's voice climbed toward hysteria, and I realized something beautiful: he was panicking. His perfectly controlled plan was falling apart. "She could have died! The press will have a field day with this. Deputy Mayor's daughter attempts suicide in psychiatric facility? Do you have any idea what this means for your hospital's reputation?"
Through slitted eyes, I watched them argue—Viktor threatening lawsuits and withdrawn funding, Dr. Harrison trying to maintain authority while his career flashed before his eyes, nurses whispering about protocol failures and who would take the blame.
Nobody was thinking about ECT anymore. Nobody was thinking about fixing my delusions or burning Alexei from my brain. They were thinking about damage control, about liability, about how to spin this disaster into something that wouldn't destroy careers.
I'd bought myself time. Now I just had to wait for the sirens.
I didn’t have long to wait.
The first siren was so faint I thought I'd imagined it—a ghost of sound threading through the medical wing's forced calm. My fingers tightened imperceptibly on the sheets, the only movement I allowed myself while playing unconscious. Seven-twenty-three according to the monitor's timestamp. Alexei had said to wait for sirens, and now, distant but undeniable, they were coming.
Then another joined it. And another. Not the singular wail of an ambulance but a chorus building like a storm system moving in from the harbor. The heart monitor beside my bed stayed steady—I'd learned to control my breathing despite the adrenaline flooding my system. Three days of performing medication compliance had taught me that much.
"What the hell?" Patricia's voice drifted from the nurses' station. "That's a lot of sirens."
"Probably a pile-up on the FDR," someone responded, but doubt colored their tone. These weren't accident sirens. They had the urgent, coordinated quality of something bigger.
The sirens multiplied, growing louder, converging from different directions like they were surrounding something. Or someone. Through my barely open eyes, I watched Patricia move to the window, her scrubs rustling with nervous energy.
"Jesus Christ," she breathed. "There's FBI vehicles everywhere. SWAT vans. What the—"
The television in the corner—always on, always muted, always playing NY1—suddenly commanded the room's attention as someone grabbed the remote. The volume came up mid-sentence: "—breaking news from Federal Plaza where Deputy Mayor Viktor Petrov has been arrested on corruption charges. We're getting reports of a massive drug bust at Pier 47, forty million dollars in cocaine seized—"
The medical wing erupted. Voices overlapping, footsteps running, everyone suddenly needing to see the screen where my father's face filled the frame—not the controlled expression he wore like armor but genuine shock as federal agents led him away in handcuffs.
"The Kozlov crime organization," the reporter continued, her voice sharp with the thrill of breaking news, "seventeen members arrested in what the FBI is calling the largest corruption scandal in New York history—"
Through the chaos, one person stayed focused on their job. A young nurse, maybe twenty-five, with tired eyes and steady hands, checking my IV with the kind of attention that said she actually cared whether her patients lived or died. She glanced at the television, then back at me, and I saw the moment she noticed my eyes weren't quite closed.
She leaned closer, pretending to adjust my oxygen levels. "Your father?" she whispered, so quiet I almost missed it under the chaos.
I didn't respond—couldn't risk it with others still in the room—but something in my expression must have confirmed it.
"That why you're really here?" Her fingers were gentle on my wrist, checking a pulse we both knew was racing. "Not actually crazy?"
The smallest movement of my head. Not quite a nod but enough.
On the television, they were showing footage of Pier 47—DEA agents in tactical gear, massive amounts of cocaine laid out like evidence in a courtroom drama, Kozlov soldiers face-down on wet concrete. Everything we'd planned, everything Alexei had promised, playing out in real-time while I lay trapped in a bed I didn't need in a hospital that had become my prison.
"Holy shit." Dr. Harrison's voice cut through the noise, and not with his usual professional composure. "Petrov's been funding this wing for three years. The board's going to—"
"Forget the board," someone else said. "If he's really connected to organized crime, everyone who took his money is about to get investigated."
The young nurse was still beside me, her hand resting lightly on my arm like she was taking my pulse but really offering comfort. Through the chaos, more sounds filtered in from the hallway—shouting now, not celebration but panic.
"Where is she?" Viktor's voice, not commanding anymore but desperate, almost unrecognizable. "My daughter—I need to see my daughter!"
"Mr. Petrov, you're under arrest. You have the right to remain—"
"I don't give a damn about rights! Clara's in danger! That monster, Volkov, he's probably already—"
"Sir, you need to calm down."
"Get your hands off me! Do you know who I am?"
"Yeah," came a federal agent's flat response. "You're the guy going to prison for the rest of his life."
The young nurse looked down at me, and I saw her making a decision in real-time. She glanced around the room—everyone was fixated on the television, on their phones, on the spectacular collapse of Viktor Petrov's empire. No one was watching the supposed overdose patient who'd caused this morning's earlier drama.
"Please," I whispered, letting her see everything—the fear, the desperation, the truth. "He's been keeping me here illegally. I'm not crazy. Please."
She hesitated, fingers still on my wrist, and I could see her calculating—her job, her career, the right thing to do. On the television, they were showing my father's office being raided, boxes of evidence being carried out, his secretary in handcuffs.
In the hallway, Viktor's voice rose to a scream: "You don't understand! She knows everything! She can testify! Alexei Volkov will kill her before he lets that happen!"
The nurse's face hardened at that. "He's lying about that too?"
"About everything," I managed. "Alexei saved me. My father's the one who—"
"Shh." She was already moving, unhooking my IV with practiced efficiency, removing the oxygen monitor, the blood pressure cuff. Every movement looked routine, like she was just adjusting equipment, but she was freeing me. "There's a stairwell at the end of the hall. Service access, hardly anyone uses it."
"Why?" I had to know. "Why help me?"
"Because I've seen enough actual overdose victims to know you weren't one," she said quietly. "And because any woman who'd fake an OD to avoid ECT probably has a damn good reason." She helped me sit up, supporting my weight as the room spun slightly. "Can you walk?"
