Page 68 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

He studies me for a long moment, then says, “That’s a good start.”

“I could have more breakthroughs,” I say, feeling stronger. “The point of my therapy at Marlowe was to rebuild those pathways.”

“I’m sorry, Sandrine. I had no idea. You can thank your brother-in-law for that. I went to him in good faith. He insisted I would never see you again but didn’t tell me why.”

Kirill was as blindsided as I was.

“I didn’t know that either.” I exhale, but I can’t be mad at Lourdes and Ares.

“Fair enough. Have a good night.” He straightens, opening the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And then he’s gone.

The room feels differently without him. Whatever we shared in that video sits under the surface of his skin. He’s keeping it hidden. The immediate tension is gone, but there is also a vibe of constraint.

And somewhere in this house, there is a little girl who needs her mother. Needs me.

Somewhere in my past, there is a version of me who loved them both.

And that same person may or may not have left them.

Chapter 20

Sandrine

The next morning, Kirill brings me to the Fairmont Hotel to see Lourdes. As much as I know she wants us to be together, the reality of our lives dictates we must live in different cities.

But now there are no more lies between us. No more secrets. And with my new phone number in her phone, she kisses me goodbye and promises to text me every day to keep in touch.

Ares and Kirill exchange a few more private words before we leave the hotel. From there, Kirill takes me straight to my appointment at Norridge. It was the first place I considered home after the accident.

I finally understand why I never went back to live with my father. Kirill was looking for me.

Norridge Adult Disability Services stirs mixed emotions. I push down the terror I lived with here those first few months of my recovery. Not knowing anything. Anyone. Including me.

Then a sharp sense of pride settles in. How far I’ve come. I can now talk without slurring. I can walk without tilting.

The facility looks the same. The solid terrazzo floors, taupe walls with dull art, low lighting, and the hum of voices.

Past the entrance, Kirill takes my hand and doesn’t let go as we walk through the corridors. I know it’s his brand of control, but the longer his fingers remain threaded with mine, the more the butterflies flutter in my stomach.

Head held high, he struts with such confidence and authority. Kirill Volkov is breathtaking. And mine. But only on paper.

Women here shamelessly gawk at him, bat their eyelashes, smooth their hair, and lick their lips. At my husband. His damnation for us to have a marriage without physical contact stings a little more today.

We made love constantly. Right up until Violet was born.

I close my eyes and wonder if I rode him late in my pregnancy, big belly and all. That I can’t imagine.

After waiting exactly three minutes, I meet with a doctor I don’t know. Kirill gives her a watered-down synopsis of why I’m back in Chicago. Including the forced name change, explaining that lawyers are in the process of changing it back.

Good to know…

In twenty-four hours, this doctor has vigorously studied my records from the New York City facility, Marlowe, and Lakeshore.

The name Volkov moves mountains.

Kirill gets a first-hand briefing. Amnesia is rare. Initial confusion from concussions or other light-headed trauma is most common.