Page 34 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

“Head trauma,” Drago says the words I can’t. “Neurological damage.”

Just like that Marlowe place.

I dig through the Norridge records, and then I see it: Retrograde amnesia.

Everything in me goes ice cold. I could step into the minus fifteen-degree night and sweat.

I hand the paper to Ksenia, not trusting my voice.

“When did this happen?” she asks, her eyes flicking back up to mine.

“Hospital records show she was admitted with a skull fracture.” I hand that document over, too. “The same night she left me.”

“Oh God,” Ksenia cries out, holding her stomach. “I knew it.”

“But we still don’t know—” My gaze lifts to meet my sister’s. “We don’t know if she planned to leave me and then had an accident.”

The distinction matters. It matters more than anything. Because one version means betrayal. The other…

I don’t finish the thought. I can’t.

Rage inside me snaps instead. It means she was trapped in a world she didn’t know. Against her will. For five years.

The room goes silent. That’s the truth neither of us can prove. And it changes everything.

I exhale slowly, forcing the rage back down, forcing myself to control it.

“Her fucking father didn’t have amnesia.” I shove the stack of files off the desk.

The punches he took. The waterboarding. Carving out his fingernails. He didn’t confess.

God, what Thomas De la Vega went through to keep Sandrine and me apart. It sickens me.

I glance down at the paperwork again, scattered all over my floor. Sandrine’s father’s secrets. Secrets he died to protect.

“Five years!” I roar, the sound tearing out of me, raw and lethal. “Five years and no one figured out she was in a fucking mental hospital?”

I throw a glass paperweight against the wall until it shatters with a severe crack. The desk takes the brunt of my rage next, my hands slamming into the surface hard enough to rattle the wood.

“All this time…” I rage on, my voice dropping, sounding like a cold, dangerous menace. “And she was right here. In my fucking city. Under our noses.”

I take out my knife, and I’m not sure what to cut. My throat maybe.

I start waving it at Drago and Ksenia. “Did either of you know?”

Drago immediately stands in front of my sister. “Give me the knife, Kirill. Of course we didn’t know. Why would we keep her from you?”

I toss the knife on the destroyed desk with a clang, the wreckage of my temper spread around me as I force myself to breathe.

“Something happened to Sandrine,” I admit, my voice more controlled. “Her medical records confirm she isn’t lying. She clearly doesn’t know who the hell I am.” That’s a bitter concession I don’t want to make. “But that doesn’t change much. She’s back. She’s my wife. I’m going to take my place as pakhan with her as my queen.”

“Kirill, if she’s got mental incapacities, we—” Drago shuts up when I give him a death stare.

“Give her whatever she wants. Food. Comfort. Therapy. I will get the truth out of her about why she left me. One way or another. Sandrine is mine,” I say, the decision settling into place with cold clarity.

My phone rings, clattering on the desk. Seeing who it is, I don’t know if I’m overjoyed or furious.

“The God of War is calling,” I announce.