Chapter 91
My ruined cupcakes sat on the wooden counter, beside a white handkerchief embroidered with a crest—a stark reminder of last night's disaster. I'd been taking them from my bakery to my apartment for my hospital visit today, a visit to a very special girl.
Alina had been my best friend. Six months ago, she and her parents perished in a fire, leaving her seven-year-old sister, Jenny, bedridden with severe bronchial issues and numerous complications I couldn't comprehend, requiring constant observation. I visited Jenny weekly, usually bringing her beloved cupcakes.
Now, with my last batch ruined—I'd run out of batter and frosting—I was going to visit Jenny empty-handed. She didn't seem to mind, though. Her face lit up at the sight of me, her dimples—a rare sight these days—flashing.
After an hour of board games, I said, "I'm sorry I couldn't visit yesterday. Some idiot customer at the bakery made my day difficult." I spared her the details of the drunk man who'd demanded a wedding cake that evening and wouldn't leave until I called the police.
She smiled. "I'm so happy you came today. You remind me of Alina."
My smile didn't reach my eyes. Partly it was the mention of my dead best friend; partly it was Jenny. Her usually glowing skin looked pale, her breath shallow, and a persistent cough racked her body. Tears welled in Jenny's eyes, her smile quickly replaced by a sob. "I miss her."
"I miss her too," I replied, the tightness in my chest returning.
She talked about her parents, her sister, their dog—everything lost in the fire. I fought back tears, unwilling to upset the strong little girl forced to grow up too soon.
I left her room only after she'd taken her afternoon medicine and fallen asleep, her hand in mine. Then, finally, I let the heaviness in my chest consume me. Unable to control my tears, I quickly approached a staff member, asking, "Where's the bathroom?"
"The bathroom on this side of the wing is under maintenance," she said kindly. "You'll have to use the one on the administration wing. It's straight ahead and to the right."
"Thank you," I murmured, offering a weak smile before hurrying away, desperate to avoid attracting attention.
My tears flowed freely the moment the bathroom door closed. I missed Alina, her parents (my only parental figures), and my own parents. I'd endured enough loss for a lifetime, and I desperately needed an escape.
After composing myself, I left the bathroom, focusing on my breathing and ignoring the antiseptic scent I dreaded. I was heading for the exit of the administration wing when a voice stopped me dead in my tracks. I wasn't nosy, but what I heard froze me.
"You have to do this, Bakshi. I apologize if you think you have a choice, but you don't. The Bratva doesn't take backstabbing traitors lightly. Remember that fire you covered for us a few months ago? If you even attempt to cross us, we're taking your hospital down, and that will be just the f***ing beginning of your worst nightmare. Spoiler alert: your family will be next." (The word "have" was emphasized.)
My heart pounded so loudly that other sounds were inaudible. I wasn't stupid. I knew crime existed, outlaws existed, and so did the f***ing mafia—the Bratva.
It was the mention of the fire that shocked me. Alina and her parents had been treated here, and they'd died here. While logically I couldn't see why the Bratva would be involved in covering up their deaths, the possibility terrified me.
Without thinking, I grabbed my phone, my hands trembling as I pressed the record button.
"Th-the fire?" a man stammered. "Bakshi," I think his name was. "Mr. King, y-you cannot threaten my family; it's unethical."
"Unethical?" the other voice replied, amused, on the verge of laughter. The voice held even more power than before. "Where were your ethics when you took the millions and happily slept with us six months ago?"
Six months ago. Fire. Six months ago. Fire. The words echoed in my head. I realized how violently I was shaking; the edge of my phone scraped against the wall. The sound was faint, but Bakshi fell silent.
"F***," I cursed under my breath, trembling.
Instead of running outside, I ran inside, knowing the administration sector was camera-free. I spotted a slightly open wooden door leading to a small storage room and hid inside, though I was sure no one had followed. I needed to stay there—an hour, two hours, three hours—however long it took to get out safely. I needed to process what I'd just heard.
My trembling subsided just as the door, which I'd carefully locked, burst open, the lock shattering at my feet. The six-foot-two stranger from yesterday stood before me, his toned physique visible through his shirt, his jaw sharp, his light stubble intimidating. He looked like a Greek god, but the attraction I'd felt yesterday instantly turned to fear when our eyes met. His dark brown, almost black eyes were cold, distant, and psychotic. They were fixed on me.
The passage is now significantly improved with better grammar, punctuation, and flow. I've also made some stylistic choices to enhance readability. The use of italics for swear words is maintained to reflect the original text's style. The final ΠΗ is removed as it's seemingly unrelated.