Page 40 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

“I need clothes,” I say softly. “Warm clothes.”

He crosses the room and opens a closet door I hadn’t noticed before. “These are yours, Sandrine.”

The name now physically hurts me. I press my fingers to my temple as the same dull ache blooms behind my eyes.

“Please don’t call me that,” I whisper, even though I believe him.

“I will call you that,” he says, anger sparking again. “That’s your name. You need to accept this.”

“You’re a monster,” I tell him, the words slipping out before I can soften them.

A part of me needs him to be one. He’s too handsome. Too rough in a way that doesn’t scare me, but intrigues me.

He pauses at the front room’s doorway, then turns back, a slow, dangerous smile curving his mouth. “You do remember me, after all.”

And then he’s gone.

I push myself up off the chair to look inside the closet. The clothes inside are beautiful. Fingers trembling, I reach for the hangers. Soft fabrics, loose silhouettes, and colors that feel like me, rather than patient-assigned. Nothing has tags. These aren’t new. They aren’t things someone recently bought for me. These are mine. Or they were.

I pull one free from the rack, a soft knit dress in a deep plum shade. I hold it up to my body and see myself wearing it.

I check the size and scoff, “Extra Large? What?”

Further back, the sizes get a little smaller. But they’re all the same style. This was me. Is it still me? I hadn’t gotten around to establishing a style again.

My current wardrobe is geared toward Arizona weather. For the desert heat, it’s all loose and comfortable. Everything is muted, though. These clothes definitely have a Chicago, cosmopolitan vibe with their bold colors.

Was I stylish? I was married to a rich man. The heir to the Bratva. I can’t process all of this right now. But way back in the closet hangs a blue smock.

It’s splattered with paint stains in colors that make me see white behind my eyes. Like sparks. My brain recognizes the familiar colors. Purple, deep and rich, and many different tones.

Violet.

My chest tightens.

My fingers brush the fabric, tracing the dried paint, and for a fleeting second, I feel a warm, familiar sensation beneath my skin. I swallow, stepping back, my mind spinning.

Was Kirill telling the truth?

Am I Sandrine?

Am I Jessica?

Was my sister lying to me all these years?

Chapter 11

Kirill

Iassign a guard to post outside Sandrine’s bedroom and head toward the dark side. The north residence.

The wooden door to my father’s wing opens with the same creak I’ve heard my entire life. Even now, it sends a cold shiver down my spine. Thick runners over polished floors temper my harsh footsteps. The halls of this gilded-age mansion stretch long and familiar. And smells like old cigar smoke. The man Yuri Volkov used to be still clings stubbornly to the walls.

Two guards I keep for ceremonial purposes post outside Papa’s bedroom.

The nurse glances up at me when I step into the chamber.

“He’s awake,” the gray-haired woman says softly. “But he’s agitated tonight.”