Page 21 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

“She can’t help you.” I carry Sandrine toward the airstairs of my jet, her weight familiar and foreign all at once.

My men have regained control and have pushed Scava back. He didn’t come to attack. He came to steal my cargo.

“Elodie!” Sandrine screams, her voice tearing through the air to the woman being carried away by Nico Scava.

“Jessica!” the brunette shouts back, as I drag Sandrine in the opposite direction.

I’m regretting not agreeing to bring dart guns.

At the plane, I climb the airstairs with Sandrine over my shoulder. Drago and my guards scramble into the cabin behind me, while a ground force stays behind to give us cover.

I shove Sandrine into a seat and sit next to her. No one will ever fucking take her from me again.

“Let me out of here.” She kicks, her nails scraping against my arm.

It should irritate me. Instead, it does something else entirely. Something dark. Something erotic. God, the fun we used to have once I made her love the kind of sex I needed.

I grab the rope we brought and secure Sandrine into her chair. “That could have gone smoother.”

Drago snorts, glancing out on the tarmac and the chaos we left behind. “You think?”

“Get this plane in the air,” I bark to the pilot, my voice cutting through the engines.

Sandrine is still struggling, still shouting, her breath coming in ragged bursts. She’s even pulling at my mask.

Smiling, I take it off and wait for her to shit herself. But when it’s peeled cleanly from my face, and I shake out my hair, she just…

Stares at me. No expression.

Drago and I exchange looks. I tilt my head toward her. “You have nothing to say to me? Me?”

Breathing heavily, she swallows, then utters, “Who are you?”

Chapter 6

Kirill – Six Years Ago

Who is she?

Every Mid-West Iron holiday function had long since become tedious with the parade of investors, politicians, and union bosses who were as corrupt as the day is long.

Then I saw her. The world didn’t stop. It collapsed.

Through a thin seam of music and the low murmur of voices bleeding through, I saw the most gorgeous woman I ever laid eyes on. The chandeliers, the polished marble floor, the cut crystal, and the diamond cufflinks in the room dulled, dimmed, and bent themselves around a single point of focus.

Her.

She drew my gaze and held it there with merciless precision.

Her hair, spun golden silk, hung loosely and framed a face too sweet for a room full of men like me. The green dress she wore molded around her delicate body as she walked through the ballroom.

She radiated purity and softness, stopping me in my tracks. She wasn’t artificial or lacquered. In Chicago, we didn’t get many starlit women. Those were in New York, Miami, and L.A.

I preferred it here.

The brutal cold showed a man’s real colors, too. Their true grit. In New York, they say if you can make it there, you can make it anywhere. I feel the same way about Chicago. If you can survive the winter here, you’re made of iron.

It’s why my father named our construction business: Mid-West Iron.