Page 6 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

“I paid the best firms in the world to find her,” I snap, energy coiling tight beneath my skin. “I’m going to kill them all, too.”

“Wait.” Drago flips through the documents again and holds up a single sheet. “It looks like Jagger also processed a name change.”

My heart stutters. “What?”

Drago’s eyes flick to mine. “Looks like De la Vega paid Jagger to legally change Sandrine’s name.”

That stops my fucking heart. “Changed it? To what?”

He glances back down at the paper. “Jessica Parker.”

The name means nothing. No significance. It’s just a taunting clue I missed. Now it means everything.

A slow, cold understanding rattles me. That’s why every fucking trail went dead. Every dollar I spent was wasted. Chasing a ghost. She stayed away. On purpose.

Under a different fucking name.

If it weren’t for this lowlife Jagger, I could have found her years ago. Every lead I chased, every sleepless night spent tearing apart cities looking for her was for nothing.

I grab the papers and mutter, “I found you.”

She didn’t just leave. She erased herself. From me. From…us.

My chest heaves at that one. I stifle it away. I’ve been living on the border of love and hate for this woman for five fucking years.

Today, I’m back in Hate Town. I’m going to make her pay for this. She told Ares to keep her hidden. From me.

The betrayal settles in my bones, feeding the anger that has kept me from moving on for five years.

“Let’s go.” I look at Drago and grab the file in his hand, the only solid lead I’ve had since the day she disappeared.

Drago nods, already talking to someone about disposing Jagger’s body.

“Jessica Parker,” I say the name in this bullshit document, my voice steady again, controlled. “Now I’ll find you.”

Chapter 2

Sandrine – Scottsdale, Arizona

Pink. Pink. Pink. All the tiles here are pink.

I walk through Marlowe Rehab’s main corridor with my patient name badge clipped neatly to my sweater, counting my steps without meaning to. One, two, three… Um…four. Right. Four.

It’s not that I forgot how to walk again. It’s that sometimes my body and my thoughts don’t arrive at the same place at the same time. But I’m much better than I was five years ago when I lost my memory after a traumatic fall. I’m also better than I was four months ago when I left the state-run facility in Chicago and my sister put me in a private facility in New York City, then moved me here in Arizona.

I press my lips together and adjust my pace, coordinating with the rhythm of my breath. It’s the only consistent thing in my life sometimes. I breathe in slowly and out even slower. The way they taught me in meditation sessions.

“Watch your step, Miss Jessica.”

I glance up and see the janitor is mopping up something in front of Tilly’s door. My neighbor probably had another accident. She’s in bad shape. But every day, Janitor Steve dutifully cleans it all up.

The water sloshing in his bucket gives off a strong scent of lemon and ammonia. For some reason, I know what ammonia is. I guess there are things the brain can’t erase. Like the way my eyes water from just a whiff.

“Good morning, Mr. Steven.” I offer the janitor a small smile and say his name so they know I didn’t forget who he is.

“Have a good day, Miss Jessica.” He nods, his kind eyes lingering on me as if he’s making sure I’m steady before he moves on.

People do that here. They watch me carefully. Not in a suspicious or taunting way. In a careful, measured way. But it’s a daily reminder: I’m something to be monitored. Something to be managed.