Page 77 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

Before today, I thought I needed Sandrine back. After watching my daughter grasp her mother like she never wanted to let go, I realized I had it all wrong.

I wanted my wife back.

That is an entirely different kind of need.

Chapter 23

Kirill – Five Years Ago

Itracked Thomas De la Vega down at the Dearborn Club. I would have questioned why an accountant could afford an expensive social club like the DC, but De la Vega’s suspicious finances were far down the list of my concerns.

He sat with two men in a circle of three wing-back chairs and a round cocktail table in the center. A humidor of cigars, a carafe of cognac, and sparkling glasses signaled he and his guests had a satisfying night ahead of them.

I smiled at the idea I was about to fuck that up.

I wasn’t a member there, but I got into any club in Chicago just by showing up. In my most expensive suit, my hair coiffed back, a Rolex on my wrist, and onyx and diamond men’s rings on several fingers, I strode up to the little pathetic party.

De la Vega’s two guests saw me and uncrossed their legs. Pale-faced, they were ready to flee. Thomas looked up from his glass, irritation quickly forming across his face.

“Kirill Volkov,” De la Vega muttered, putting down his drink.

“We’ll let you and Volkov talk,” one of his buddies said and grabbed the other to get the hell out of there.

“I’m not working right now,” De la Vega said, sitting back.

“My father pays you well. If you want to keep your job, you’ll give me ten minutes.” I hovered, waiting.

His jaw tightened, but after a second, he gestured stiffly toward the chair across from him. “Make it quick.”

I sat, adjusting my cuffs while he studied me with suspicious eyes. Good.

“I will make this quick.” I leaned forward, a pointed finger resting on the table. “I love your daughter.”

De la Vega’s lips pursed as if the words had physically offended him.

“I want to marry her,” I continued when he said nothing in reply. “I’m here to give you the honor of asking your permission.”

An awkward silence heavy enough to crack marble stretched until he laughed. Not because it was funny. Because he must have thought I had lost my fucking mind. Me, the supposed playboy, settling down.

“No,” he said, getting comfortable in that chair.

I leaned back. “She already said yes.”

“She doesn’t know what she’s agreeing to.” His voice sharpened instantly. “The life you’re forcing on her. She’s a child.”

“She’s nineteen.” I cringed a little, knowing how it sounded.

If I were ever in the same position and a thirty-one-year-old man asked to marry my nineteen-year-old daughter, that man wouldn’t leave my sight with his head intact.

But Sandrine and I were in love.

“Sandrine is a naïve girl,” her father said, dismissing her maturity.

“She’s an artist,” I countered. “With promise. She’s an apprentice for Amon Fritz.”

His jaw ticked, recognizing the name because the man is all Sandrine talked about. But Fritz turned her down, and her father didn’t even think to ask his boss, the head of the fucking Chicago Bratva, for a favor to change that artist’s mind.

But I did.