Page 90 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

“I didn’t realize, sweetie,” I whisper, more to myself than to her, tears spilling down my cheeks. “But I should have known.”

“Don’t cry, Mommy,” Violet says in her undies and a tank top with a little bow at the neckline. She reaches up to touch my cheek with cold fingers, making me feel worse. “I’m fine.”

Our relationship feels impossibly backward. I let out a shaky breath, forcing myself to be steady and calm. I may not remember how I became her mother. But I need to learn. She needs me.

“Here.” Kirill’s voice comes at me from behind.

It’s gentle, though. I look back to see him holding fresh clothes. Velour track pants and a thick sweater. When our eyes meet, and he sees my tears, his edge crumples.

“Thank you.” I take the clothes from him. “I wanted to get her dry first.”

As he gathers the wet jeans and puts them on the counter, he watches us.

“Daddy, I’m fine!” Violet continues to argue with him.

“You had a bad cold a few weeks ago, solnyshko. I told you no playing in the snow for a while.”

Ah ha. She didn’t tell me that. One week with a mother and father and she’s figured out how to play us against each other. I sneak a smile at the ingenuity.

“I don’t feel sick.” Her head goes into the sweater’s neck hole, and when it pops out, she opens her mouth to protest more, but instead she…

Sneezes. Violently.

Oh no.

I touch her face. She’s warm. Too warm.

Looking up at my already-angry husband, I say with dread in my voice, “She’s burning up, Kirill.”

Chapter 27

Kirill

Istand at the edge of Violet’s bed as a Bratva doctor I trust presses the stethoscope to her small chest.

My daughter’s cheeks are flushed, her curls damp at the temples. Her rapidly developing cough carves a hole into my chest. Without her vibrance, she looks extra tiny beneath the blankets.

Violet has had coughs before. Fevers. I’ve been told they are common for children, yet my visceral protection of her makes any virus my new enemy.

Every cold came with a dose of guilt. I know how Sandrine feels, and I ache for her. She’s blaming herself as I’d done for five years. She paces on the other side of the bed, her face as red as Violet’s. I swear she doesn’t take a breath unless Violet does.

“Only a slightly elevated temperature,” the doctor reports. “Just her body fighting off a low-grade fever. Keep her hydrated, rotate fever reducers, and monitor her throughout the night.”

Watching the doctor with absolute focus, I nod, as I’d done through other visits. But this one is different. I’m not alone in her care anymore.

“Thank you, doctor.” Sandrine sits next to Violet and smooths damp hair from her little forehead with a tenderness that looks instinctive. “You’re okay, sweet girl.”

“If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to call.” The doctor gathers his things and approaches me. “Pakhan. Madam.” He leaves, his footsteps creaking down the hallway.

I step forward. “Do you want some soup, solnyshko?”

“No,” Violet answers, snuggling her favorite pink dinosaur.

Sandrine glances up at me with a flicker of uncertainty, like she’s bracing for more of my wrath.

The one thought I’ve refused to say out loud rushes through my mind. Did Sandrine leave us because of me? Because she saw too much of who I really was and couldn’t handle it? And I’ll never know for sure unless her memory returns.

Which isn’t likely.