Page 23 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

He’d better know who I was. He’ll be working for me one day.

I turned my attention to the woman he held on to, as if he were in a room full of hungry bears. This polar bear might have found his mate.

When I glanced at her, she met my eyes, and the room fell away. “And who is this lovely woman?”

With a protective instinct, he said, “My daughter. Sandrine.”

The name slid over my skin like silk, settling deeper than it should have.

Sandrine.

I extended my hand to her. “Kirill Volkov.”

Her lips parted slightly as her fingers slipped into mine. They were warm and slightly trembling.

Her eyes were sharper than I’d expected, looking at me. A quiet strength flickered like a flame refusing to be smothered. It caught me off guard in a way nothing had in years.

Fuck…

“Mr. Volkov,” she said, her voice softer than a man like me deserved, but steady enough to hold its own. “It’s nice to meet you.”

The contact of our skin was so electric, I released her. A second more and I would have dragged her away without another word.

“Seeing as your father helped himself to the bar and neglected you, why don’t you join me for a drink?”

“She’s eighteen,” her father cut in sharply.

Eighteen. Her age screeched in my brain like a record scratch.

For the first time since I’d crossed the room, I paused. Not out of morality. Whatever scraps of that I still possessed had long since been carved away working for my pakhan father.

Something about this young woman felt older, more composed, stronger. Chicago-strong. Chicago-iron, like me.

Still, eighteen changed the shape of the situation I found myself in. Just not enough to end it. Just enough to make it interesting.

Before I could tell this accountant that if I wanted to talk to his legally-aged adult daughter, who he brought to a work function, I had that right so long as she didn’t object.

One of those union bosses approached us, pulling De la Vega into a conversation, saving me from making a scene. When another union boss from across the room signaled for De la Vega to join the others, he hesitated, glancing between his daughter and me.

“Sandrine, you stay right here,” he hissed at her.

Like that would somehow anchor her in place.

Like that would stop me.

The accountant walked off, knowing better than to tell me to fuck off and leave. At least he had one functioning brain cell. The moment his thick cologne stopped watering my eyes, the tension around Sandrine loosened. Her shoulders relaxed just slightly. That little movement told me everything I needed to know about her relationship with her father.

Yet, when she looked at me, the awareness of heat sparking between us grew hotter.

“Water?” I asked, sounding less predatory and more…coaxing. “We do have other beverages besides alcohol. Your father should have gotten you something. That’s not how we treat people at Mid-West Iron.”

She nodded, taking in my words. “Some water would be nice.”

“Come with me.” I resisted touching her, but held out my hand for her to walk ahead of me.

I steered her away from the noise and down a side corridor.

“The bar was that way?” she pointed out.