Page 38 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

Be patient.

It’s what the medical doctors would tell the therapists when they pushed us too far. Demanding more than our minds could offer.

Kirill exhales, dragging a hand through his hair in a way that makes him look almost human.

And familiar.

“There are things I learned tonight,” he begins, his voice softer, the edges worn down. “Things I didn’t know this morning.”

I watch him carefully, every nerve in my body alert, waiting for the trap. “Like what?”

“Your disability,” he answers, his gaze locking on mine with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe. “Your head trauma. The amnesia.”

The words said out loud by a stranger feel humiliating.

“I fell,” I tell him. “They told me I fell. I have no memory of anything before that.”

“I believe you,” Kirill says, and his expression shifts. “And I believe you when you say you don’t remember me. I’m sorry for the things I said.”

My heart stutters because I didn’t expect him to apologize at all.

“But I need you to believe me,” he adds, leaning forward, his steely voice tightening again. “We are married.”

None of this aligns with the life I’ve been told is mine. By my father, by Lourdes.

“When…” I shake my head. “When did we get married?”

His cheek twitches like it’s a test. “Five years ago. Months before your accident. I saw your hospital records.”

My fingers curl into fists.

“And we’re still married?” I ask before I can stop myself, because that’s the part that doesn’t make sense.

“Yes,” he says without hesitation. “Still.”

“My sister would have told me.”

His jaw tightens. “No one knew we got married. My father— It’s complicated. But Lourdes and Ares knew you accepted my ring, Sandrine.” He says that name again like he’s said it hundreds of times. “I showed Ares and Lourdes evidence.”

“What evidence?” I press, my voice rising slightly, because if this is real, I’ve been lied to.

By a lot of people.

“It’s late,” he replies, cutting off my line of questioning cleanly, his tone going dark again. “We can talk about that tomorrow.”

Frustration flares hot and immediate again. “I want my sister.”

“Ares and Lourdes are at sea.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Your sister knows you’re here. Ares contacted me from their yacht. I expect they’ll be on a plane to Chicago as soon as they reach Santorini.”

Hope sparks so quickly it almost hurts.

“You’ll let me see her?” I ask, leaning forward, clinging to that hope.

“Of course,” he answers, and for a moment, his voice is almost gentle. “Family is important.”

I think of Lourdes. Of Elodie. They’ve been the only constants in my life, which started over in a hospital bed.

Kirill’s gaze sharpens, a deep unknown threading through the stare. He stands up and closes the distance between us in a way that makes my pulse jump.