Page 85 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

“Boarding school,” I repeat, slower now. “Geneva Prep. It’s where I went. Where Ksenia went.”

“No!” Sandrine snaps.

The biting retort cuts through me. I’m caught off guard by the force of it. Not many people talk to me like this.

“It’s what I’d planned,” I say, leaning in.

“Did I know this before?” she asks.

I look down briefly, the truth sitting uneasily on my tongue. “No. I didn’t mention it. She was three weeks old.”

“I see.” She looks away. “I don’t want you to do that,” she says, her voice steady now, holding my gaze. Her confidence is taking shape right in front of me. “I’m her mother. I have a say.”

I study this version of her. A woman who doesn’t remember me. In her head, she just met Violet and me, yet she’s challenging me.

“We have time to discuss this further,” I say, raising a hand.

“How can you send her away? She’s a delightful child. A tough little cookie. That’s because of you, Kirill. You said she will lead your brotherhood someday. All a prep school will do is polish her up to be a bride.” She speaks so fast that she has to stop and cover her mouth. “I’m sorry.”

I tilt my head and consider what it would be like for the house to breathe in the absence of Violet’s spirit. “It was an easier decision to make without you, Sandrine. I worried that when I assumed the throne, I wouldn’t be a good father. With this new consolidation, there will be a lot of bloodshed. And travel. I might not be home for days at a time.”

“Her mother is home now.” She sits back and folds her arms, not even phased when I told her I’d be slaughtering people for days. “I will get Ksenia on my side.”

I smile, thinking of them ganging up on me. I don’t hate it.

I get the check and pay the bill in cash. Plus, a several hundred-dollar tip as a thank-you for the private accommodations.

“Now, let me show you your surprise.” I stand up and fix my jacket into place.

I take Sandrine back to Iron Keep, but down to the climate-controlled storage vault beneath our residence wing. The space is kept at a constant temperature, protected from sunlight, moisture, and the ravages of time.

Along one wall stands the custom storage rack I had built, filled with canvases. Every painting she left behind. Every piece of her.

Sandrine steps inside, and her body goes still. “Are these my paintings?” she asks, almost choking, her breath catching.

“They are.” I spent years tracking these down from people who bought her works online from anonymous estate sales that turned out to be that bastard lawyer Lew Jagger.

The weak link who eventually grew a bigger set of balls and handed one over to an auction house.

“I can’t believe I painted these.” She runs her hand across the textured surface, as I have done for many years.

Now I hope these small triggers will pull memories out of her. If only I knew more details of what happened when she went home. Her father was there. But he’s dead. Lourdes was in Florida.

Was someone else there?

Each painting stands upright in its own slot, carefully separated from the next. I took the time to learn how to store and preserve her artwork. For years, if needed. They had been intended as gifts for Violet when she was old enough to understand. Now I’m giving them back to her mother. They belong to Sandrine, not me.

It makes me even more furious to realize the depth of everything that was stolen from my wife. I lost five years of her. She lost her whole damn life.

“I spent years hunting them down. Found every single one,” I say, hiding my emotion. “I thought they were lost forever.”

It was the only piece of you I had left.

“When you disappeared, your paintings disappeared too,” I say. “I tracked them down and bought them all.”

She looks like a strange ache moves through her. Trembling, she reaches for the canvases.

“I know these. Some were in that book in your library. I knew they were mine somehow.”