Page 22 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

Dragging my gaze away from the delicate flower I had no business being near, I watched Papa surrounded by vultures. Yuri Volkov was in his element, being sucked up to, while I lingered at the edges with one of his enforcers, Drago, and his fiancée, my older sister Ksenia.

“I’m done,” I muttered, rolling a glass of vodka between my fingers. “If one more man tries to shake my hand in order to pass me a note or a package for Papa, I’m going to cut off their hand.”

My sister shook her head at my threats like she did when we were kids. Her dark hair, like mine, was pulled back, not soft against her shoulders as she usually wore it. Even she changed around my father.

“You could always just talk to them like a normal person,” Ksenia chided me.

“I’m not normal.” I’ve always loved how she didn’t toe the line of a Bratva princess.

She was strong. Strong enough to handle one of my father’s most lethal killers as a mate.

“No, you’re not normal,” Drago said dryly beside me, his broad frame always on alert, his eyes always on his fiancée.

No one else. Ever. I fucking admired his devotion to my sister.

“That’s been well established,” I said, smiling.

It teased me to seek out the woman again. My attention was easily captured by the glow of her blonde hair bouncing off the chandeliers. She looked delicate. Too delicate for me. But something about me changed looking at her.

An older man in a conservative suit and a stiff posture grabbed her hand and pulled her toward him.

“Who is that?” I gritted out, rage firing behind my eyes.

Ksenia blinked at my uncontrolled tone of hatred and followed my line of sight to the pair standing near one of the tall windows.

“That’s Papa’s new accountant,” she said.

“Not the man,” I replied, impatience threading through my voice. “The woman on his arm.”

She looked too damn young to be his wife.

Ksenia’s lips curved faintly. “That’s his daughter.”

My chest tightened. Daughter. Young. Innocent.

“The accountant’s name?” I asked harshly.

“Thomas De la Vega,” Drago answered, getting in my line of sight. “And watch how you talk to my fiancée.”

Drago is different in this world of hard, brutal, and rarely faithful men. Like my father.

Without sparring any further, I set my empty glass aside and reached for another from a passing tray. My attention remained fixed across the room. I sipped at the sharp bite of Russian vodka flown in for the event that hit the back of my throat.

That shit had to be 150-proof, but it did nothing to slow the pull in my gut to speak to that woman. Not strong enough to stop me or to send me walking in the opposite direction like a man who knew better. No, it fueled me to be who I really am.

Bratva heir.

Future pakhan.

Keeping my face hard as stone, I crossed the floor with the confidence that had been carved into me over years of being in my father’s ranks. I smiled on the inside as bodies parted to let me through.

Toward the one thing in this room that made me feel alive again. The one person who looked like she didn’t belong here.

That’s who I wanted to meet.

“Mr. De la Vega,” I said smoothly with just enough authority to remind him who I was. “Welcome to Mid-West Iron. I understand you’re new. We’ve not met.”

“I know who you are.” His eyes flickered with recognition and caution.