Page 160 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

Tamara.

I see Sandrine’s gaze lock on to mine, raw and wounded. That’s how much she still loves me. Then I glare at Chernov, thinking how low it was for him to boast about his daughter’s sexual behavior.

“Yes.” My chest tightens as I say it out loud, acknowledging the truth I never gave Sandrine the chance to hear before everything went to hell. “It was a one-time thing. Before I met you.”

I don’t deserve her forgiveness. Not after the terrible thoughts I had of her for the five years that she’d been missing. Thinking she abandoned me. It was easier to hate her than to love her, to think she didn’t love me back.

I reach for her before I can stop myself, my hand coming up to cup her face. My thumb brushes over her cheek. She’s real. She’s here. And she remembers.

She fought for me. Fought to get home to Violet. With a knife.

I help her to stand and wrap my arms around her, holding her against my chest with a force that cannot be gentle right now. She fits in my arms like she always has. Like she always will.

“I had no idea any of that was happening behind my back,” I say between us.

And I was right about not trusting her father. But I can’t rub this in her face anymore. We both paid a tremendous price for that mistake in her judgment.

“I wanted to come home,” she says quietly.

Our eyes locked, we’re silently acknowledging everything we lost and everything that was stolen from us.

“This gives me such peace.” I press my mouth to her temple.

Behind me, Chernov shifts, the faint scrape of chain against the chair breaking the moment. He’s trying to stand up. He’s about to attack.

Just like that, the softness inside me calcifies into deadly violence.

I ease Sandrine away from me, from the animal I am about to turn into. The look I give her now is to brace herself for what she’s about to see. And she needs to see this.

I turn slowly to face the man who thought he could rewrite my life without consequence. I step in front of him, and he flops back down into the chair.

Feeling nothing but vile hatred inside, I say, “Look at me.”

His head tilts back to meet my gaze, and I draw my gun with a smooth, practiced motion.

“Is she telling me the truth?” I ask, my voice devoid of any grace or forgiveness.

He smirks, or tries to, though it falters at the edges. “Why would I give you that mercy?” he says, his tone laced with brittle irony. “You’re going to kill me anyway.”

“Yes,” I agree easily without emotion. “I am going to kill you.” I let that settle, let him feel the inevitability of his death. “But telling me the truth will save your daughter’s life. Even though you threatened to kill mine.”

His eyes flicker enough for me to see that level of fear seep in. The fear he put me through by taking my daughter. It’s subtle but unmistakable.

“I can end the Chernov line tonight,” I add, softer now, as if I’m not threatening to completely dismantle his world.

His breathing changes. Faster. Shallower.

“She tried to escape,” he snaps, the words tumbling out, desperation cracking through at last. “She came at me with a knife⁠—”

I fire a bullet into one kneecap before he can finish.

The shot echoes through the room, loud and violent. The recoil bites sharp in my hand as the bullet tears through his knee. He screams, the sound raw and animalistic. His body jerks forward against the restraints as pain explodes through him.

“I don’t care if she came at you with a knife,” I say evenly, stepping closer, keeping the gun trained on him. “Say it again.”

He gasps, his head hanging for a second before he forces himself to look up at me. Sweat beads along his forehead, and his breath comes in broken pulls.

“Please,” he chokes, the word barely audible. “I was serving your father. Doing what he wanted.”