Page 156 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

“Happy?” I showed it to him.

“Put it in your boot.”

Shaking my head, I did and walked to the door.

“Sandrine!” Kirill called out to me one more time.

“What, Kirill?”

“I love you,” he said, making my heart pound. “One hour.”

Nodding, I left, my throat too clogged to respond.

In the parking garage, I hurried to my car. The one Kirill bought me after teaching me to drive.

He’d said one day when he’s pakhan, we’ll both have drivers and guards. God, I didn’t want that life. I hoped his father lived forever. Or– gasp – named someone else pakhan.

I wanted Kirill. Just him. No brotherhood. No billions.

Focusing, I climbed into the BMW with shaking hands. The strong scent of leather from new upholstery hit me. All I’d been smelling for days was Violet’s tears and her vomit.

Out on the street, I opened the window. The cold Chicago air hit me like a shock. But I needed real air. I’ve been inside for days. Only leaving for doctor visits.

The drive felt longer than it should have. Every traffic light didn’t cooperate. Stealing minutes from me holding my daughter. My hands tightened on the steering wheel as doubt about this visit crept in. Or doubt about my whole life. I shoved that down. I loved Kirill. I loved my daughter. I just didn’t know exactly what this life would be like. And that terrified me.

When I reached the house that my father had bought after getting his job at Mid-West Iron, it didn’t look the same. I’d moved out months ago while he was at the Dearborn Club for the night. The night Kirill told him I was pregnant and that we were getting married.

Kirill had done the polite thing and asked for Dad’s blessing, only to be insulted.

The way Dad yelled at me over the phone that night. The things he said. The threats he made. The demands. Mostly, that I was not to call my sister at school in Florida. Lourdes was having a tough semester, and he didn’t want her to be burdened by my mistakes.

My baby wasn’t a mistake, I screamed back and hung up.

But I didn’t call Lourdes, worried that I’d upset her. She’d be home in a couple of months. I’ll make it all right with her then.

Dad’s car was parked in the driveway, and lights were on behind the curtains. The sun had set while I was on the road, and I didn’t even notice. I dropped my phone in the cup holder and got out of the car.

Something felt off the moment I stepped through the door.

“Dad?” I called out from the vestibule.

He stood in the living room, looking at photos on the mantel. “You’re late,” he said without looking up at me.

His shoulders were tense, his posture rigid in a way that immediately set my nerves on edge.

“I have a baby at home,” I replied, my pulse quickening. “I needed to⁠—”

He turned quickly, shutting me up. That angry look, eyes snarling, on his face stopped me cold for a reason I didn’t understand.

“You’re home now,” he said with the slightest hint of relief. “Now, we make things right.”

My breath caught. “Make what right? What do you mean, I’m home now? I live with⁠—”

Movement behind him cut me off. A man stepped into view from the kitchen. Without seeing his face, I knew he was bad news. Older. Harder.

Adrian Chernov. Yuri Volkv’s enforcer. One of the most vicious men in the Bratva. At Mid-West Iron, he was Head of Security.

There was something about him that set every instinct in my body on edge whenever he looked at me. He’s the quintessential Russian mobster. Cold, lethal, and deeply wrong.