Page 154 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

My hand catches her waist as she collapses into me like the floor was just ripped out from under her. Her breathing is uneven, shallow, her pulse racing beneath my fingers where they grip her wrist to keep her steady.

Behind me, I hear movement. Drago’s boots shuffling. The guards. Chernov in a chair. It all feels distant, secondary. Because in my arms, my wife is unraveling. And across the room, Adrian Chernov watches. Silently waiting.

Waiting to find out what he just set into motion.

Chapter 52

Sandrine – Five Years Ago

The baby wouldn’t stop crying.

It had been like that for days, the desperate wail bouncing off every wall of the penthouse, threading through my bones.

“Please,” I whispered, my voice raw with exhaustion. “Violet, please stop crying.”

I pressed my lips to her warm forehead, tasting salt from her tears. But she cried harder, her tiny body vibrating. The ache inside my chest cracked a little wider with every broken sound she made.

My arms ached, not from holding her, but from rocking her frail seven-pound weight and from the tension running through my veins. I tried everything the doctor told me at our last visit, searches on Google, and websites for new moms.

Nothing worked. She wouldn’t stop crying.

Her tiny face flushed and scrunched with distress. Her little fists clenched as if one part of her was fighting the other.

Across the room, Kirill stood rigid, his hands braced against the edge of the kitchen island, his head bowed from the same exhaustion. He had yet another sleepless night with me, with us. Normally he’d return from his work on the streets of Chicago around three a.m. He’d shower and crawl in bed next to me, kiss me, make love to me, and pass out.

We’d not made love since Violet was born. I’m three weeks postpartum.

Last night was the fifth in a row that Violet’s colic wouldn’t let anyone sleep. Kirill’s patience looked stretched thin. I’d never felt so fragile and worried that anything I said would be the wrong thing until now.

“She’s been like this for nearly a week straight,” I said, my voice breaking as I shifted her against my shoulder, trying to soothe her. “I don’t know what else to do. The doctors just say to ride it out.”

Kirill dragged a hand through his hair, the dark strands flopping onto a forehead filled with stress lines. “She’ll stop,” he said with a strain in his voice. “Like they said.”

“When?” I asked, tears burning behind my eyes. “Kirill, she won’t sleep, she won’t eat properly, she just…cries.”

He didn’t answer me that time. Between her wails, tension sparked hot between us.

“You just need rest,” he said finally, rolling up his sleeves. “Give her to me.”

“Rest?” I repeated, bouncing Violet gently as her cries sharpened again. “How am I supposed to rest when she’s like this?”

“She needs you calm,” he shot back, his control slipping. “Not like this.”

Not like this.

“You think this is my fault?” I swallowed, forcing down the lump in my throat as I clutched our daughter closer, waiting for ten seconds of calm that didn’t come.

“Of course not.”

I stared at the clock on the stove. Every minute that ticked by heightened the dread in my heart.

“I need to see my father,” I said, the thought spilling out before I could stop it. “He called last week. He wants to see me.”

Kirill stilled with a shift so immediate the air between us seemed to tighten. “You’re telling me this now?”

“You’ve been working,” I said between sniffs. And, six days ago, I didn’t anticipate I’d be leaving my daughter like this.

“He made it clear, Sandrine. You’re dead to him.”