Page 84 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

Her brows lift in surprise. “You did?”

“Yes, I did.” I hold her gaze. “You have a driver’s license.”

She exhales, the frustration of what she’s missed out on evident in a way I hadn’t noticed before. “I can’t drive with my condition. I have panic attacks and get dizzy occasionally from the stress. Plus, the medication⁠—”

“You’ll have a driver,” I say, cutting her off.

Her jaw drops open, but she slaps her lips closed. I see the shift in her thinking, and I brace for a question I know I won’t like.

“Are you sorry it’s me?” she asks, softer now. “Given what I am now?”

My breath escapes me. “I’m going to get you the best care,” I say.

Her gaze lingers on me, searching for more. “You didn’t answer my question.”

I put up a finger for a moment to think. It’s not coming to me immediately because it’s not just about me and what I want. I have a daughter to consider. But I’ve seen nothing, other than how she turned inside herself yesterday, to make me think she’s unstable.

The doctors at Norridge would have cautioned me, knowing I have a small child at home.

“No. I’m not sorry. You have some challenges,” I say, reaching my hand out to her. “But I promised to love you in sickness and in health.”

My using the word love makes Sandrine go still. She looks down at my outstretched hand and takes it. A spark I wasn’t expecting flies up my arm and warms my heart. But the mood is broken by the server arriving to take our food order.

Alone again, Sandrine touches her stomach and glances up at me. “Did I have a difficult birth?”

“It was,” I admit the truth to her. “You were young. It was your first baby.”

“Did you stay?” She swallows. “The whole time?”

“Yes.” I adjust my napkin. “It was close to thirty-six hours. I dozed off when you did.”

When another memory hits me, she pounces right away. “What?”

Cursing under my breath at how easily she notices, I say, “Violet wasn’t breathing right away. She was born blue.”

Sandrine clutches her throat. “Oh no. God, what happened?”

“Turns out, that’s normal.” I hold her hand again. “She just needed some extra care and attention to get everything moving. Then she cried. And didn’t stop.”

I’m pushed back into those difficult few weeks with Violet as a newborn. Part of me wondered if that’s why Sandrine left. She was young, worn out from the delivery, upset about her father not accepting us. Violet’s colic was bad, and we hadn’t slept.

Without her memory, I can’t ask. We have to move on if this is going to work.

Our dinners come, and we eat in moderate silence, commenting on the food here and there. My plate empty first, I sit back and notice how she’s eating. Her mannerisms. The way she holds her fork, her knife. It all flashes back, walloping me. She’s still the same person underneath what she’s been through.

When the plates are taken away, she asks me, “What will I do? As your wife? Did I know what this meant before?”

“My father was still running the brotherhood with full strength,” I reply, rapping the table with my fingers. “We didn’t think about that. We lived for us. Not the Bratva. I did my job as heir, handled the assignments he gave me. But all I cared about was you. Us.”

Her eyes go glassy at that. “And now?”

I hold her gaze. “Right now, all you have to worry about is being a mother.”

“Can I resume painting?” she asks cautiously.

“You can paint,” I say easily. “Violet starts all-day kindergarten next year. After that, she’ll go to boarding school and⁠—”

“What?”