Page 46 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

“You must get to know him.” She pours tea into a cup. “My father doesn’t have much time on this earth. Kirill will become pakhan when he dies. My brother will lead the Chicago Bratva. He needs a wife at his side.”

Sounds like a movie. Danger. Power. That part practically bleeds out of Kirill.

“Why is he so mean to me?”

“He’s been angry for a long time.” Her eyes lower briefly. “And hurt.”

A headache pulses harder behind my eyes, and I want to go home. Only a hollow feeling opens inside me because I don’t know where home really is.

The facility in Arizona?

The one before that in New York?

Lakeshore or Norridge here in Chicago?

That apartment in Forest Glen I dreamed about months ago?

Small sterile rooms, counselors, medications, and nurses hovering. Five years of trying to rebuild a person I couldn’t remember being. I had finally started feeling stable. Strong enough to maybe live on my own.

And now this. The idea of freedom and independence has been stripped from me. Apparently, I’ve been married this whole time. That means I can never live on my own again.

“Please eat,” Ksenia says gently. “You gave us a scare yesterday.”

“Us?”

Her expression turns serious. “Sandrine, you are the future queen of this Bratva.” The title sounds surreal in her soft voice. “You are very important.”

Queen. The word presses against my ribs uncomfortably.

“What if I don’t want to be important?”

The bedroom door opens again before Ksenia can respond.

Kirill walks in wearing black slacks and a dark dress shirt rolled at the forearms. His presence changes the vibe of this room instantly.

Ksenia straightens in his presence. “Good morning. Your wife is hungry and wants to eat.” She gives me a wink.

“Leave us,” he says, looking at me, not her.

And not my face. My shoulders. My bare shoulders. Thin straps of a tank top I found and slept in.

Without hesitation or argument, Ksenia nods to her brother and walks out obediently, shutting the door behind her.

“Can I sit?” Kirill asks, sounding friendly.

I nod carefully.

He lowers himself onto the edge of the bed, his large frame making the mattress dip beneath his weight. His gaze flicks toward the untouched tray of food.

“Please eat.”

I don’t know why I listen. Maybe because I’m hungry. I reach for a piece of toast and nibble the edge while he pours orange juice into a crystal glass.

“Thank you,” I say, clearing my throat. “For taking care of me. But now you know the truth. I don’t know you. I don’t want this.”

Do I? The uncertainty scares me more than the answer.

Kirill goes still beside me.