Page 118 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

To the world, I officially assumed the role of CEO of Mid-West Iron months ago when my father stepped down from our construction empire. Tonight’s ceremony is Bratva only. Those who swore to me.

I slide my hand from Sandrine’s waist and take her warm, steady hand. Feeling her fingers tangled in mine shoots electricity through me.

My bride. My queen.

Mine.

Sandrine and I share a look and move inside together as the first Bratva family.

Inside, the formality parts pass quickly. I attended this same ritual for my father as a child. I was a little older than Violet when his father was killed, and my father ascended to Pakhan.

The three of us enter to the sound of horns and drums, my Vory in a receiving line. We step up to an anointed elder, where I kneel when required, stand when commanded, and accept my birthright with an oath I’ve practiced for months. The role that had already been decided by my blood long before tonight.

There’s no crown. No swords. Just a knife in my pocket for later. And something else.

When it’s done, when the final acknowledgment ripples through the room like a startling verdict, I turn to Sandrine. With my signal, she takes her place next to me, and when she lifts her dress to step onto the platform, I see she’s wearing flats. She’s still having issues with dizziness. I smile, though. She’s fucking mine, no matter what.

Looking regal, she pledges her loyalty to me. To the brotherhood.

She is the Mother of Kings to my people. There will be sons.

The elder announced that my anointment is recognized by the council, and cheers erupt in the room. Deep. Raw. Russian. And violent at my command. Anywhere, anytime.

The reception begins, and the atmosphere shifts from gothic ceremonial to modern celebratory. It reads like a wedding. There are tables with candles and flowers. The air is thick with cologne, alcohol, and power.

My wife moves through the room with me, a picture of grace. Her presence at my side makes this night feel whole and complete. It sickens me to think I would have had to do this with Tamara, as was planned since we were young.

Those false dates with her were tough to get through. But she loved them. Loved showing me off to her Instagram fans. It was all I could stand. But it was necessary. And it worked.

With Sandrine by my side, I greet heads of Russian families from Los Angeles to Philadelphia. Those who have pledged to me. I never made any official announcement about the fracture in my marriage. It was no one’s business. It’d been known in hushed Chicago circles outside the brotherhood that she'd disappeared. Perhaps her return is seen as convenient. Weeks before my father’s death.

Ha, this marriage is real between us again, and I’ve never felt more alive and powerful. I allow myself to believe that this revived physical connection we’ve made might hold.

Then I see another vision in white and gold, and the hand, not holding my wife’s, balls into a tight fist. Across the room, cutting through the crowd is Tamara. Alone. Her expression is composed in a way that tells me she knows exactly what she’s doing walking in here tonight. Dressed like a queen, in my wife’s colors.

Payback for missing that wedding in Miami. Good.

How the fuck she got in here is going to be written in someone’s obituary tomorrow as the cause of death. Her father is still powerful, though. Some are more afraid to cross Adrian Chernov than me. That will change tonight.

Tomorrow, Drago will find out who leaked my wife’s appointment at the dress shop. And when he does, someone is going to suffer for it.

My enforcer appears at my side, his voice low enough that no one else hears it. “We didn’t invite her. We invited her father. But he’s running late. She convinced the guards that he sent her in his place.”

“Adrian is too busy to come to my coronation?” I mutter about the third-most-powerful man in my brotherhood. “When he shows up, he will regret that.”

Chapter 37

Sandrine

Imove through the newly constructed ceremony room of the north wing with Violet’s tiny hand tucked in mine. She is the only steady thing for me in this sea of strangers. And she seems to know everyone.

Kirill doesn’t restrict her movements throughout Iron Keep. She climbs into his lap while he negotiates million-dollar union contracts with punishment clauses.

I’m the one who’s new.

Voices trail behind us, not loud enough for Violet to hear over her singing the little songs she loves. They’re just not hushed enough to be ignored.

‘When did she get back?’