Page 128 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

“I’d like to spend some time sketching.” My lie comes easily.

The nanny nods. “Of course, Madam. Take all the time you need.”

Violet is already turning another page of her book. Completely content. Completely distracted.

With no one really watching me, I tiptoe to the north wing and quickly glance through the window of the guard quarters. My driver is stretched out on a sofa, and all the guards on duty are sitting at a game table, playing cards.

My pulse jumps, noticing car keys just sitting on pegs outside their entrance door. No one notices me, so I grab what I know are keys for my car by the white rabbit’s foot the driver keeps on the ring.

This is either the smartest thing I’ve ever done, or the dumbest. It’s probably the latter, but I won’t be made a fool.

Ambling softly, I reach the Escalade I’ve been getting in and out of with ease for weeks. But hopping into the driver’s seat is like climbing into a tank. It feels enormous. And the damn dashboard looks more complicated than the cockpit of an airplane.

Staring at all the buttons, I remember Kirill’s words: I taught you how to drive.

Somewhere in my brain, I know what to do.

“Okay,” I mutter. “Come to me.”

I see the button below the steering wheel. START That seems obvious, so I press it. But nothing happens. Panic immediately follows. Then I notice a message flash over the steering column. PRESS BRAKE

But I can barely reach the brake. I guess it’s best I found out before I got the car running. Something hits me, and I reach under the seat and feel a lever. Pushing it, the seat starts moving.

It’s coming back to me. I reach the brake pedal, press START, and the engine rumbles to life.

I nearly jump out of my skin. “Oh my God.”

Sitting in the back, I never knew the power of this car. My heart pounds. Can I really do this? Giving the car a moment to warm up against the cold, I map out how the hell I’ll get out of here. The windows are tinted, even the windshield has a coating. The gate at the base of the driveway is closed. I clocked how the driver just eases in front of it, gives a wave, and someone opens it.

How will I do this? I look around and notice the driver's cap sitting on the passenger seat. Without thinking, I grab it and shove all my hair underneath. I adjust the brim to also cover my eyes. I’m sure I look ridiculous.

Waiting for the memory of driving to reach my hands to steer, I tap my feet on the pedals to know how much pressure to put on both the brake and the gas. Comfortable, I ease the car into drive and with my foot on the brake, I let the car roll toward the front gate.

I can do this, but every second feels like an hour. The closer I get, the harder my heart pounds.

Don’t stop me.

Don’t stop me.

Don’t stop me.

One guard glances up, and I give that wave I see my driver do. And just like that, the gate begins to open. I know I should be concerned over how easily I could breach this security. But so much else is locked down.

When the gate closes behind me, I exhale so hard my chest hurts. I actually did it.

For another second, I think about the trust I’m violating. But if I find Kirill with another woman, stealing a car to do it will be the lesser evil.

When I turn on the street, however, I realize I have no idea where I’m going. Then I remember Kirill telling me that my phone has a tracker. For my protection. If he can track my phone from his, shouldn’t I be able to track his? I look at the app, and smile seeing what I’ve come to know as a reverse icon. I press it, and there’s Kirill’s phone, blinking along a map. I tap it and next my navigation is set to follow him.

Is this a mistake? If I catch him in some back alley beating up a union boss and land myself in someone else’s hands, he will never forgive me. He will send me back to Norridge for shock therapy.

Okay, that seems a little extreme and ridiculous. I can’t be a mother if I’m lobotomized. Maybe he’ll be flattered that I love him enough – gasp – to care that he may be fucking the woman he was supposed to marry.

I place the phone in the holder, and grip the steering wheel. To follow my pakhan husband. If he’s meeting Tamara when he should have been in bed with me, or eating those pancakes with our daughter, I need to know why.

I drive for around twenty minutes. The feel of the car and road beneath the tires, how to steer, and how much to brake comes back to me. It feels natural. But I grow concerned when the streets narrow and turn much more rural.

The GPS’s destination flag pops up on a small plot of land with a tributary of water running behind it and stretching upstream. The location feels eerily familiar. The more places I visit in Chicago, the more sparks fire in my brain, memories trying to break through. Had I been here before? With Kirill?