Page 167 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

“Doesn’t change that he would dare to⁠—”

I kiss him. “Please don’t be angry at him. And don’t kill him. He’s my sister’s husband.”

Kirill sips from my lips. “Keep kissing me. It calms me down.”

We stay like that, just kissing. His arms around me feel so, so good. And it’s an echo of a feeling that stayed right under my skin all this time. I just didn’t know what it meant.

“I’d like to go to New York with you next month.” I rest my head on his chest. “The art showcase is there.”

“Where the country’s most dangerous crime bosses will be?” He frowns. “Let me think about that. Uh. No.”

“It’s a peace summit.” I look up at him.

“We’ll see about that.” He kisses me again and then shakes the coat off his shoulders.

“Kirill, you’re covered in blood.” I realize now why he didn’t take off his coat in front of Violet.

“I had to kill Chernov’s accomplices from that night.” He makes a fist. “Now everyone knows the consequences of betraying me and that I will carry out the punishment.”

For a split-second, I fear this man who just confessed to mass murder, but it vanishes. How much I love Kirill and trust him eases my terror.

In the bathroom, he snaps on a pair of black plastic gloves and strips off his clothes, not in any kind of sexy way. He’s careful not to let anything touch his face. In front of him, a black contractor’s bag swallows the evidence.

Naked, he struts to the walk-in shower. The view of his ass, his back, and his thighs has lust firing through me. I step that way and see him turning on the water.

Over his shoulder, he says, “Get in here, wife.”

Epilogue

Kirill - One Month Later

The ballroom overlooks the Hudson River through floor-to-ceiling windows. Spring sunlight glints off the water, turning everything gold. Ares spared no expense for Lourdes’s baby shower. White roses. Crystal centerpieces. And crisp white linens cover every table. A string quartet is somewhere playing classical music.

Then there’s the security.

My men stand along the perimeter in tailored suits. Ares’s seven guards are positioned throughout the venue with military precision. Any average guest would assume this is a normal amount of security for a billionaire’s wife.

Violet races past me in a pink dress, her dark curls bouncing against the perfect bow in her hair.

“Daddy, Mommy said we need another table for the gifts.”

Five years old and she’s already an expert at ordering people around. My daughter will either rule the world or burn it down if someone takes her crown.

I glance down, smiling. “I’ll get right on that.”

She twirls and points toward Lourdes. “And don’t forget to tell Aunt Lourdes she looks pretty.” She waves me to bend down so she can whisper something. “Even though she’s got a really big belly.”

A snort-laugh escapes me. “Your mommy was big like that, too, solnyshko.”

“No way,” she says, waving me off and running back to center stage where Lourdes sits on a chair with a hat made of paper plates and gift ribbon.

Sandrine catches my eye from across the room and smiles. The sight still hits me in the chest harder than it should. She’s standing beside Lourdes, handing her the wrapped gifts, while keeping one eye on Violet.

Ares appears beside me, a whiskey for him in one hand and vodka for me in the other. In a chilled glass.

I think he likes me.

“Your daughter is bossy as hell, Volkov,” he says and takes a sip.