Page 130 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

They retreat, and my mind is still catching up.

“Sandrine, how did you get here? Where the fuck is your guard?”

“Home. I drove myself.” She looks over my shoulder. “Who is that woman?”

My brain skips over Sandrine saying she drove herself here the minute she says that woman. Then it all clicks.

Aw, fuck.

I sheath my gun in my sidearm holster. “Sandrine, look at me, baby.”

Her watery eyes find mine. “Who is she?”

“My name is Nell Beechum,” the woman who I made the near-fatal mistake of meeting on the sly says.

“She’s an art dealer, Sandrine.” I put my arm around my wife. “She flew in from New York to meet you. Of course, I had to vet her first. I thought this would be the best place. See her natural reaction.”

“It’s an honor, Mrs. Volkov,” Nell speaks up. “I followed your work five years ago.”

“An art dealer?” Sandrine says, sounding so confused.

“Talk to her.” I lean down and kiss her cheek. “You got this, moya zhena.”

I step aside to give Sandrine space. Her drive to be a force in the art world is still inside her. Like being a mother was. And a wife. A wife to a dangerous man who couldn’t always be gentle.

“Kirill explained what happened. Your accident. I’m so sorry,” Nell says, circling the room, studying Sandrine’s canvases. “I was ready to sign you five years ago when you were an apprentice with Amon Fritz. Had the meeting all set up. Then you disappeared.”

“Amon…” Sandrine whispers. “I saw his book in your library, Kirill.”

“You wanted to work with him. I made that happen. He helped you grow,” I say, and leave out how I had to be talked out of killing him when I found out he handed over all her paintings to her father after she went missing.

“Your memories were stolen,” Nell says. “Not your ability. I’ve seen your recent sketches.”

“You showed her my sketches?” Sandrine asks me, her face even.

“Of course,” I explain. “You said you wanted to paint. I didn’t think you meant fingerpaints with Violet. I wasn’t so blind that I didn’t see how your talent was on the verge of exploding. Plus, painting calmed you. And made you the person you are. I want to give that back to you.”

“You’re lucky to have such a supportive husband,” Nell adds. “I’m here because I’m hosting a showcase for emerging artists next month in New York. I’m expecting a big turnout. Critics, collectors, influencers, the whole circus.”

Sandrine’s mouth falls open. “You want me?”

“Yes, you.” Nell grins. “You’re a risk. But a good one.”

“I haven’t painted anything new in years.” She exhales. “Not on canvas.”

“I’d like to show these.” She points to three landscapes.

“My… My paintings are here,” Sandrine says, recognizing the collection I showed her weeks ago.

“Yes, baby,” I confirm.

“Paint me one new piece,” Nell says. “We can feature it on social media. Brand New. Never Before Seen.” She flashes her hands as if her words were on a banner.

Sandrine blinks. “I don’t have social media. Not anymore.”

Nell takes out her phone and steps toward my wife. “I found this old Instagram account. Log into it tonight and add a few posts about the show. I’ll send the banners. Influencers will tag you. Critics and collectors will look you up.”

Sandrine laughs weakly. “I don’t remember anything about Instagram.”