Page 151 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

“I love you, Kirill,” I say back. Closing my eyes, I add, “Just saying that feels… Real. Right.”

“You told me first, you know,” he whispers, still stroking Violet’s hair. “You were so brave. Unafraid.”

“Did you say it back?”

He smiles. “I did. I wanted to be brave, too.”

Chapter 50

Kirill

Three damn days.

It’s been three days since the attempted abduction of my wife and daughter. And we don’t have concrete evidence of who the mastermind was. Whoever did this covered their tracks.

In the north wing, I stare out the office window with my hands clasped behind my back. The glass reflects my outline and rigid posture. My beefed-up security detail is parked conspicuously on the block outside Iron Keep to send a message.

I make appearances during the day at Mid-West Iron. I’m still the CEO. That company provides legitimate wealth and back-end tunnels to funnel illegitimate prospects. My presence there is needed.

Violet continues to go to school, dropped off by Sandrine and me, and then we pick her up together as well. We must live our lives.

Then our enemies win…

In between, I accompany Sandrine to unscheduled doctor visits. She’s been having episodes on and off. She broke down in my arms again last night. Badly. She’s on extra medication for a while to control the anxiety.

Drago steps into my office, his cologne a comfort, but tonight it’s drowned out by the adrenaline from his anger.

“I found something,” he says and lays down a thick folder with photos. “The driver had no bank accounts I could find. The two men we killed in the warehouse were freelancers. No known connections.”

“The young bratok?” I ask.

“Him knowing you, how he called you Pakhan was a solid lead,” Drago says, sounding assured. “It took some digging, but he was identified by one of the brigade leaders as a failed cadet. Someone he rejected months ago. My reports confirm this.”

Something in my chest tightens, not in surprise, but in recognition, like a lock clicking into place.

“That young Russian got recruited by someone,” I grumble.

“A money trail runs through a chain I also recognized,” he says, sliding another sheet toward me and tapping the page with a blunt finger. “It leads back to one account.”

“Who?” I dread hearing the name.

“Adrian Chernov.”

Yep.

Collecting myself, I pick up the statement, my eyes moving over the bank transfers. Several small figures that were designed not to raise any flags. My brain is searching for reasons why Chernov would do this, skipping over the fucking obvious ones. He knew I’d find out.

And kill him.

“That’s not all.” Drago flips to another page. “I cross-referenced older transactions on a hunch.”

“Older?”

“Five years ago.”

My grip tightens almost imperceptibly on the edge of the desk. “Five years?”

“There were similar small deposits from him made to Thomas De la Vega,” Drago continues, watching me.