Page 142 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

Drago nods and sets his phone in front of me. The screen flickers to life with grainy security footage from the gas station. A fucking gas station. Our SUVs have fueling privileges at various corporate garages throughout the city.

I lean forward, forearms braced against the table as I watch. My car is sitting at the pump. I know it’s my car. It’s jet-black and polished, but indistinguishable to anyone who doesn’t know better. Even my fucking plates are fake. The driver steps out to pump the gas while Sandrine’s guard scans the perimeter, looking anxious. He knows they weren’t supposed to stop there.

The guards behind him don’t even get out of the vehicle. No one fucking goes inside with her.

Then another dark colored SUV pulls in. A Tahoe.

“The fucking driver doesn’t even look up,” I grouse.

“Maybe that was on purpose,” Drago says.

I’m filled with dread watching the Tahoe’s back door open before the car even fully stops. I see it from this angle. Did the guards see it?

“Did you run that fucking plate?” I ask Drago, violently knocking the untouched vodkas to the carpet.

“The team is tracking that,” he says, unfazed. “I expect I’ll get a name or an address any minute, Pakhan.”

I glance back down at the screen. At this footage from an hour ago. An hour!

And we are in the fucking sky. “How long until we land?”

“I’ll go talk to the pilot.” Drago stands and heads toward the cockpit.

I keep watching the video, and for a second, when the Tahoe blocks them, it looks like Sandrine is confused. Like she doesn’t understand what’s happening. Her hands are twitching. She’s having an episode. I recognize the distant look in her eyes, like when I found her in the library that day. The way she starts retreating somewhere I can’t follow.

She and Violet shouldn’t have been at that fucking gas station to begin with. I told her to pick up Violet and go home. No stop for ice cream. No driving around this city like the world isn’t filled with men who would use my family to get to me.

I look back and see Sandrine’s entire body snap into motion, and she launches herself at the man holding Violet. I watch her fight. I watch her claw at him. Watch her try to rip my daughter out of his arms.

Her daughter.

The video keeps playing, and I painfully watch as a second man appears and grabs Sandrine from behind. She twists, kicks, and fights him, too.

“She didn’t have a chance,” I mutter. “But why isn’t she waving her hands to get the guards’ attention? Yell!” I scream at the screen.

My jaw clenches so hard that pain shoots into my temples. The footage is grainy. But I can see she’s still fighting for her and Violet to get away. That’s until the bastard drags her toward the SUV. A cold fury settles over me. A man fucking touched my wife. My daughter.

Drago returns. “Two hours, Pakhan. The pilot got clearance to increase altitude and speed.”

“Two fucking hours,” I say, my voice a bitter drone. “If Sandrine had gone home, these dogs never would have had the chance to take them. Her being on the wrong side of town fueled this.”

“Or the guards agreed and signaled someone about the opportunity,” Drago boldly muses, knowing these are his guards. He’s responsible.

My fingers curl against the edge of the table. “Show me the video again.”

Drago moves the play bar back, and I see it all happen for a second time. To see if I missed something. It’s no less sickening.

“She knew the protocols,” I continue, my voice steady. “She knows her guards are armed and that they would take a bullet for her and Violet.”

“Maybe with her condition…” Drago trails off when I give him a look.

Blood rushing in my ears, I watch the footage loop again. And then I replay it in my mind so it’s etched into the back of my skull.

I know one thing for sure. Sandrine didn’t go willingly. She fought for Violet until the very end.

That’s what it looks like.

“What if it was all fake?” My question hangs there, dripping blood like a dead carcass.