Page 109 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

Her smile drops a touch as she considers if I’m telling the truth. Then she smiles. “Kirill always kept his secrets.”

The word always catches on my last nerve about this woman. We agree on something: Kirill does keep secrets. This woman being one of them.

“You’ve known my husband long?”

“Most of my life.” Her smile adds another tiny cut I’m trying to keep from bleeding all over this white dress.

Dahlia steps back, seeing this might turn into a catfight. “Mrs. Volkov, I⁠—”

“Madam Volkov,” I correct her as Kirill had done to that hostess. “I’m done here. I need to pick up my daughter.”

The biting tone has my guard on his feet, a hand in his jacket. But the fact that he’s not immediately tackling Tamara tells me she has status in this brotherhood. But how? Why?

Done with this, I turn away.

But Tamara’s voice sails over my shoulder. “Violet will love Geneva Prep.”

My stomach flips again, and I stop. How does she know Kirill wanted to send Violet there? Brain scrambling, I reason that if she’s known Kirill her whole life, she knows he went to that boarding school and perhaps it’s natural he’d make that choice for his child, rather than it was something he discussed personally with her.

“My daughter isn’t going anywhere,” I argue back, over my shoulder.

Tamara strides closer to me and then speaks lower. “You left him once. You’ll leave him again. And then he’ll be mine. Really mine. And Violet will be in Geneva.”

This woman saying my daughter’s name makes me wish I had a knife to slash her throat. I step back, seeing all the blood.

What was that?

I’m not violent, am I?

“Ms. Chernova, I have your dress choices laid out for you,” Dahlia says, gesturing toward the other set of sofas and mirrored platform.

Tamara eyes me up and down, but she’s speaking to Dahlia. “Do you have the ones I specifically asked for?”

“Yes, Ms. Chernova.”

And with that, Tamara walks away. Leaving me standing in the middle of the boutique with the ugly thoughts she planted taking root.

I change out of the dress with the help of one of the seamstresses so I don’t ruin the pinning. Fully dressed and standing at the counter to pay, I reach into my purse to use the new black card my husband gave me.

That conversation comes back at me in a way I’m not sure it would have if this didn’t happen. I need to self-soothe and remember who Kirill is with me. When it’s just us.

“What is the credit limit?” I asked, staring at my name on it. Sandrine Volkov.

“There is none,” he answered, like telling a woman she has an unlimited spending allowance didn’t raise his heart rate.

“How much can I spend on my dress?” I stared up at the dumbfounded look on his face.

“Don’t even look at the price tags,” he said, then kissed me. “I look forward to getting calls from my bank to approve very large purchases.”

Kirill’s kiss still burning on my lips, I ask Dahlia, “What do I owe you?”

As my husband suggested, I didn’t look at the price tag.

“It’s our gift.” Dahlia leans in. “For the new pakhan.”

That sort of deflates the fun of spending a rich husband’s money.

“I’ll tell him,” I say, unsure if Kirill would want gifts like this.