Page 48 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

Isit in a line of cars in front of Violet’s school, my phone pressed to my ear. Voices murmur in clipped, efficient Russian, detailing shipments.

“Move the delivery to Thursday.” My mind can’t focus on much else right now. “If there’s a problem, you fix it before it becomes my problem.”

I barely register the quick, obedient agreement on the other end. My attention drifts to the double doors at the top of six cement steps. Moments later, children pour out of the expensive private school in a rush of color and sounds. Their bright coats punctuate the muted gray day.

Their high-pitched laughter breaks through my cold heart and reminds me what’s important.

When I see my daughter, I get out of the car.

Violet saunters out and down the steps with a confidence she carries everywhere. Her dark hair is tied back with her favorite ribbon, put there by either Ksenia or Nadia this morning. Not me. I tried once and got the Violet Look of Death for not doing it correctly.

She scans the line of cars with a restrained expression of excitement. When her gaze finds mine, her entire face lights up in a way that hits me square in the chest. I don’t deserve how this child loves me. Worships me. Trusts me.

By the time she reaches the car, I’m holding the door open for her like a chauffeur. “Your chariot, fair princess.”

“Hi, Daddy,” she says with glee, as if seeing me is a small celebration.

She doesn’t wait for assistance, just climbs in with practiced ease.

I slide in beside her and put my arm around her. “How was school, solnyshko?”

“We painted today.” She loves painting days. “They weren’t dry. I can show you tomorrow.”

“I can’t wait to see them.” I breathe her in, pressing a kiss to her temple.

I wonder how long I can keep her this happy over the littlest things. One day she might be in charge of my Bratva and men will want to kill her. I shiver that thought away.

“Can I see Mommy today?” Her tiny fingers curl into the fabric of my coat.

The question builds an ache in my chest. Crap, why did I say something? Now she’ll ask me every day, and I’ll have to tell her no. That will break my heart, but Sandrine isn’t ready.

I smooth a hand over my daughter’s hair, buying myself a few seconds to steady my voice and keep from choking up. “Not yet, solnyshko. She needs a little more time.”

Her lips purse in not quite a pout. She’s calculating and weighing whether to accept that answer or challenge it. My throat tightens at the idea of being forceful with her.

Even for her age, Violet understands who I am. That I’m powerful. She’s seen more than I ever wanted her to see, since I often conduct Bratva business in my home, just as my father did. Our house is symbolic of our power. What she’s seen will make her strong when she understands who she is. Right now, her world revolves around lollipops and cartoons.

Finally, she exhales and snuggles closer. “Okay, Daddy.” And she knows when I say no, it’s for a reason.

I tap her nose lightly. “Tell me more about your day.”

And just like that, she launches into a story about a boy who wouldn’t share his paints, but she made him give her the purple paint because he was being ridiculous, about how her teacher said her painting was very advanced. It figures that she loves to paint and has talent like her mother. Her words tumble over each other in a rhythm that makes me smile.

I just listen and enjoy being pulled into her simple, innocent world for the length of the drive home. My peace shatters, however, the moment we turn onto my street.

Three black SUVs are double-parked in front of my house, their presence an unmistakable warning. Another form of power has descended upon Gold Coast.

My arm tightens instinctively around Violet, pulling her closer against my side. My gaze sharpens at the formation of seven men standing next to one SUV in the middle. It reeks of arrogance to bring all this protection.

Greek arrogance.

“Ares Zervas,” I grumble under my breath, and realize he’s also my brother-in-law.

Fuck…

The timing is almost admirable. Was he airlifted from his fucking yacht? But this is not an attack. It’s a statement. To show up with all seven of his guards. Linebackers code-named with the seven deadly sins.

I lean forward slightly and whisper to the driver, “No matter what, you ignore those men. Pull in behind the house, then you take my daughter inside,” I further instruct, my voice low and absolute. “Straight to her bedroom. No detours.”