Page 45 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

But that day in the park when I proposed and until the day Sandrine walked out my door, she knew I loved her. And that I wanted her and our child.

“Daddy,” Violet murmurs, her voice sleepy now, pulling me back to the present.

“Yes, solnyshko?”

“You’re mixing up the voices. Go back.”

I clear my throat, correcting it. “I apologize. How is this…” I get growly and tickle her.

Her spit of laughter cracks something open in my chest.

By the time I finish the second story, her eyes are closed, her breathing deep and even. With her body slacked against mine, I stand and carry my daughter to her bed. Tucking the blankets around her, I press one last kiss to her forehead. She stirs slightly and pulls her stuffed dinosaur closer, a faint smile touching her lips even in sleep.

“Goodnight, solnyshko,” I whisper and stride back toward the door.

I stand there and just watch her. With her, I’m something good.

The way Sandrine once thought of me before I became a real monster.

Chapter 13

Sandrine

Iwake slowly, tangled in sheets softer than anything I ever slept in while being treated at those facilities. Even the nice ones. The mattress feels like I think a cloud would.

For a few seconds, I just stare at the ceiling, disoriented by the silence. No buzzing fluorescent lights. No ward-mate crying through paper-thin walls.

The ceiling above is unfamiliar. Pale gold and edged with ornate crown molding I’d seen in those home improvement shows. This place screams expensive elegance that I never thought would be part of my world.

From the tall windows, muted morning light spills into the room.

Then my head throbs. Not sharp enough to cripple me this time, but enough to remind me what I have woken up to.

I’m in Chicago. Back in Chicago. I’m married to Kirill Volkov. And he’s the future Bratva Pakhan.

It all makes my stomach queasy.

A knock sounds at the door before it opens gently. I sit up, using the sheet to cover my chest.

Ksenia steps inside carrying a silver tray. She’s beautiful in a cold, polished way. She has the same sharp cheekbones as Kirill, now that I can see her more clearly.

“Good,” she says softly when she sees me sitting up. “You’re awake.”

She sets down the tray on a small table beside the bed. Eggs. Toast. Fruit. Fresh-squeezed orange juice. Real food. Not hospital food. Not rehab cafeteria food.

She stares at me while I push out of the bed. The room tilts for half a second before steadying again.

Ksenia notices. “You’re dizzy?”

“Sometimes.” I rub at my temple. “I was told I fell down a full flight of stairs.” My voice sounds strange when I say it out loud. Detached. “But I don’t remember any of it.”

“That’s probably for the best.” Sympathy flickers across her face.

“Am I really Kirill’s wife?” I ask with an exhausted exhale. “Did you see us get married?”

Ksenia straightens, not liking the constant challenge. “I was there. And so was my husband, Kirill’s enforcer Drago. We were your witnesses. Then you disappeared.”

My heart pounds unexpectedly. “I don’t know him.”