Page 157 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

“What is he doing here?” I asked my father, my voice already shaking.

My father didn’t answer me.

“Where is that baby?” Adrian demanded instead, his tone flat, stripped of anything that resembled warmth.

The way he said that baby and not her name coiled dreadful panic inside me.

“She’s home,” I said, taking a small step back, the floor suddenly feeling unsteady beneath my feet. “With her father. Kirill Volkov, in case you both forgot. Son of the man you both work for.”

“We know who we work for,” Adrian replied coldly, not even flinching at my mention of Yuri Volkov.

“What do you want? Why did you really want me here, Dad?”

“You’re leaving,” my father said. “Go upstairs. Pack your clothes. Adrian’s men will take you to a safehouse. You can get away from that monster.”

“What?” I shook my head, confusion and fear tangling together in my chest. “I’m not leaving my husband and my baby.”

“He raped you,” my father snapped. “That baby is a child of rape. An abomination.”

“No!” The word tore out of me before I could stop it. “He didn’t rape me. I love him. He loves me.”

“I’ll take care of the child,” Adrian said with a steely voice filled with hatred. “Yuri won’t recognize it.”

It…

I tried to rush the front door, but it opened, and three men in leather jackets stood there. I couldn’t fight. Exhaustion got the better of me, and I felt ready to collapse.

“Get upstairs!” my father roared, the command cracking through the room like a whip.

Adrian caught my arm and forced me around. His fingers bit into my skin as he marched me toward the stairs. “Do as you’re told, girl.”

“Stop it. Let me go.” I twisted, trying to wrench free, but he held firm, his strength overwhelming.

“This is what’s best for you,” Adrian growled. “Best for the brotherhood. Your father said you’re an artist. I can set you up with a studio in Paris. You can eat croissants and paint to your heart’s content.”

My father lifted an envelope from the dining room table. “My lawyer already processed a new identity for you. You can live your life in peace.”

A studio in Paris? New identity?

My addled brain pictured it, and for a second, it seemed nice. Quiet. Then I heard Violet cry in my head and my stomach dropped.

“No. My name is Sandrine Volkov,” I said, panic rising fast. “Now, let go of me.”

With enough adrenaline, I was able to pull away. But with nowhere else to run, I climbed the stairs. My bedroom door had a lock. I could scream for help from the window. I could use the old landline phone to call Kirill for help.

The stairs in my father’s house seemed endless. Cutting the house in half, it had metal spindled railings on both sides. I remember sending toys down the steps, guessing which side they’d slip through and crash to the floor. I didn’t know why I thought of Barbie dolls tumbling down the steps, blonde hair catching the light, and me laughing.

My breath came fast and uneven, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it might crack out of my chest. My room. I just needed to get inside my bedroom. I managed to reach the door and slam it behind me, locking it quickly. To my horror, my nightstand was empty. The phone was gone. I rushed that way and tossed the nightstand over, breaking the lamp. The jack was empty, too. The phone was removed.

I just stood there, shaking, trying to think past the panic clawing at my throat. I quickly crossed to the window, fumbling with the latch before pushing it open. With the cool night air rushing in on a rogue gust, I leaned out, my eyes scanning the yard below.

No!

More of Adrian’s men stood guard. Dark shapes were stationed all around the property, watching for me. I was trapped.

This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.

A sob caught in my throat as I pulled my head back inside, my mind scrambling for another option. I needed another way to get back to my baby, back to Kirill, back to the life I chose.