Page 43 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

“I’m sorry, solnyshko, my sunshine. I won’t miss tomorrow.”

Violet tilts her head in a way that is far too similar to me. “Okay. You can read two stories tonight.”

A smile tugs at my mouth. “Two?”

“And do the voices,” she adds, already negotiating, already ruling a Bratva man the way I taught her.

“Voices, you shall get,” I agree because there is nothing I wouldn’t give my daughter.

Now I can give her a mother. Her mother.

Violet settles easily into my arms, her head against my chest as I carry her deeper into the room, past the canopy bed draped in pink fabric with white lace trim, past the shelves lined with books, and trunks filled with toys.

In this room, monsters don’t exist unless they’re drawn in crayon or voiced by me at bedtime. My child will know a father’s love. Something I also never had.

I sit on the plush rocker next to the bookshelf, keeping Violet on my lap. I gently rub her back in an up-and-down, slow, soothing rhythm. She keeps her head against my chest, completely at ease, completely trusting. A violent man like me doesn’t deserve her trust. But it’s a side of me I’ll never show her. Maybe when she’s older and ready to take her place in my Bratva.

“You smell like outside,” she says, pressing her nose into my arm.

“I was outside,” I reply, brushing a curl away from her face. “I had to go get something.”

Her eyes light up with curiosity. “A present for me?”

The image of Sandrine, confused, frightened on the floor of the cell earlier, insisting she doesn’t know me, flashes behind my eyes and leaves a fracture in my heart that may never heal.

Everything in me braces to say the words: Your mother is home.

Once I say those words out loud, everything changes. It changes my daughter. It changes us. I’m no longer a single parent. I’ll have to share Violet.

I’m all she knows in this life. And I’m about to upend her world.

“Not what, solnyshko. Who.” I hear the tremble in my voice. “I brought your mommy home.”

She stills in my arms, then turns around to face me. My world narrows to the pounding of my heart and the weight of what I just said.

“My mommy?” Violet stares at me like she’s seen a ghost.

Her brows knit together in a way so achingly similar to Sandrine’s that it hits like a physical blow.

“Yes.”

Violet searches my face with a seriousness far beyond her years.

“Where is she?” she asks in a rush, her fingers curling into my shirt.

Here it comes.

That continued disappointment I must deliver to this child. Five years and it still lands like a blade slicing out my heart.

“In the house,” I say carefully, choosing not to tell her she’s a few doors down. Guarded.

Violet’s eyes widen into bright and hopeful orbs. “Why didn’t she come see me?”

“She’s not well, solnyshko,” I continue, my jaw tightening around that awful but convenient truth. “She needs to rest.”

“She got hurt in the magical world?” Her voice goes small.

Years ago, I told my daughter that her mother crossed over into a realm to fight evil. Most of the stories I tell Violet include a version of Sandrine with a sword, on a horse, or lightning shooting from the tips of her blonde hair.