Chapter 14
Kirill
The sound of Dr. Sokolov clearing his throat snaps me awake. Blyad. I must’ve passed out sometime before dawn, slumped on the floor with my back against Stella’s door like a damn guard dog. My neck protests as I lift my head off the wall to greet him. “Dobroye utro.”
“Good morning to you, too. Is this a convenient time to see my patient?” the doctor asks in thick Russian. “Or should I come back later?”
“Give me a minute to check,” I reply before cracking the door open just enough to peek inside. Stella’s sitting upright, blanket pooled at her waist, eyes fixed on some far-off point only she can see.
She’s awake. Decent. Breathing. But miles away from me.
With my shoulders slumped, I close the door softly.
“You can go in, Doctor,” I murmur, stepping aside. “If you need anything, I’ll be downstairs.”
While Dr. Sokolov slips inside to tend to her, I force myself to go to the kitchen to have some breakfast. The kitchen is warm, quiet, and completely serene. It’s everything I’m not, unfortunately.
I open the fridge, stare at the outrageous amount of food inside it, but nothing looks like something my stomach could actually handle.
Not after last night. Not after Stella made it crystal clear that any feelings I have for her would never be reciprocated.
Not after I lied to her. Not after my men shot at her.
And definitely not after I kidnapped her away from her home.
Or maybe her mind had been made up long before any of that shit happened. Either way, she got her point across.
I’m hunched over the kitchen island, head in my hands, when I hear the sound of footsteps approaching.
“Good morning, sunshine!” Kostya sings, like any man would if his soul wasn’t as tormented as mine.
“I don’t have the energy for whatever this is,” I grumble, drawing invisible circles around my kid brother’s happy-go-lucky face.
“Always the grump,” he teases, jumping on the kitchen island and taking a seat beside me. “What’s up your ass this morning?”
“Maybe I’m over being home.”
“I hear that,” Kostya chuckles, popping a piece of bread into his mouth. “But at least fake some enthusiasm. Misha will be pissed if you ruin Christmas for Elena.”
“Nothing will ruin Christmas this year. Not now that Kira is home.”
Kostya’s brows pull together in deep thought, a first for him. “You think Misha’s going to convince Frankie to stay here instead of going back to the States?”
“Her name is Kira, and this is her home.”
“No, her name is Frankie, and her home is back in Chicago. That’s her home.”
“Keep your voice down,” I snap, reminding my brother he can’t say every reckless thought aloud in this house.
Not only because Misha would take offense to it, but because Sasha would use it as ammunition—another excuse to show our older brother how belligerent and unpredictable Kostya’s become.
If Sasha had it his way, Kostya would’ve never left Russia.
Sensing my warning, Kostya slides closer to me so no one will overhear us talking.
“You know I’m right. Frankie should go home. Not only because that’s all she’s ever known, but because Katya would have wanted it that way.”
“You don’t know what Katya would have wanted.”
“Oh yes, I do. I know Katya hid her kid somewhere we couldn’t find her for a reason. I know Katya hated everything to do with the Bratva. Or do I need to remind you that it was the Bratva that killed our sister?!”
My hand flies to my brother’s throat as I shove his back onto the island, until he’s lying flat on top of it. “Enough, Kostantin! No more shit out of you!”
He breaks my hold and shoves me away. “Fuck you, Kirill!” he growls, jabbing a menacing finger in my chest. “You know I’m not wrong.
You know it. Frankie doesn’t deserve to be swallowed by the poison we deal with every day.
She’s good. Good like Katya. She deserves fucking better.
And keeping her here, in this cage of a house, in this fucking family, is cruel!
” He spits the words out, raw with rage, before jumping off the island and storming out, leaving me alone once again with my troublesome thoughts.
I sit down on a stool and hold my head in my hands, hating that I lost my temper with him.
Especially since he’s right. Russia isn’t where a girl like Frankie belongs.
She has a life back in Chicago. One that is untouched by blood, misery, and vengeance.
She hasn’t become jaded like the rest of us.
Hasn’t drunk from the poisoned well that is being a part of the Bratva.
No. Frankie has lived most of her life like a normal human being, untouched by all this darkness. It would be heartless to drag her into it. To trap her in the despair we’ve had to live with.
If Kira had grown up with us, then maybe this life wouldn’t be so hard on her.
But Frankie? Frankie deserves better.
Fuck. Now I have to apologize to my brother. And if there’s one thing I hate more than being wrong, it’s saying I’m sorry. I feel like I’ve been saying that a lot lately. And that’s all because of Stella.
I mean, isn’t that why I really lost my patience with my brother just now? Because I’ve been so wound up, tense, and fucking miserable?
I haven’t gone back to her room since I left her last night. Sure, I slept in the hallway in case she called out or needed anything. But that was all I did.
So why did it hurt when she said love wasn’t something people like us deserved? Why did I even care? Deep down, I already know the answer. I don’t have to dig too far to find it. I’m fucking falling in love with her.
No. That’s another lie.
I’ve more than fallen. I’m neck-deep in it, ribs cracked open, bleeding for her like an idiot.
And if I tried to bring any of this up again, she’d either laugh in my face or crush me with that cold little shrug of hers.
Yeah. Coming home has a bitter taste now. I should be on cloud nine like Misha and Sasha, happy to have Kira back. Instead, I’m sitting here licking my wounds over a stupid broken heart.
Isn’t that just fucking wonderful? Blyad.
“Uncle Kirill?” Kira calls out as she enters the room. “Are you alright?”
I lift my heavy head, a smile tugging at my lips at the sight of my niece.
“Just a long night, that’s all,” I lie. “Where’s your boyfriend? He usually follows you like a shadow wherever you go.”
Frankie’s cheeks turn pink as she sits beside me. “He went to see Stella before breakfast.”
“Of course.” I nod, even as the sound of her name feels like salt sprinkled over the wound she left last night.
“Before I left them, I heard Dr. Sokolov tell Stella that he thinks she’ll be up and about any day now. And that’s all thanks to you,” she beams. “Is it really true you went to medical school?”
It takes me a minute to remember where she got that idea. Then I recall our conversation on the plane. I must’ve said something along those lines, explaining how I knew how to retrieve a bullet.
I doubt Frankie would find comfort knowing the closest thing I have to medical training was watching Dr. Sokolov work as he patched up my brothers during the coup d’état our family pulled on Vasily’s throne and the brutal war that followed.
I learned fast and did whatever Dr. Sokolov taught me, my small contribution to tearing down the old Bratva order and putting Misha on the throne.
“So… how are you liking Russia so far?” I ask, needing to deflect that loaded question.
“Honestly? This is a dream come true,” she says in earnest, and my heart breaks a little at how eager she is to be a part of this family.
“Even after learning that we Petrovs are—”
“Bratva?” she finishes for me, the light in her smile dimming somewhat.
“I have to admit it was a little hard to come to terms with. I was already having trouble wrapping my head around Lucky and his family being part of the mob, and now, here I am, Bratva royalty. It’s going to take me a hot minute to process all this new information. ”
“Completely understandable. You’ve lived a sheltered life before we came into it. I’m sure I speak for all my brothers when I say all we want is your happiness, Ki… I mean, Frankie.”
“It’s okay, Uncle Kirill. You can call me Kira. I don’t mind it. It was the name my mother gave me, so it would be unkind on my part not to give it the respect it deserves.”
Blyad. It’s like I’m talking to Katya.
“Thank you,” I tell her quietly. “That means the world to us. Katya would have been so proud of the woman you’ve become.”
“You really think so?” she asks nervously, playing with the ends of her long hair.
“I know so. Has Misha shown you her pictures?”
“I saw the one in the library. Are there any more?”
“Come with me,” I say, holding out my arm for her to take. Her eyes sparkle with excitement as she quickly slips her hand into the crook of my elbow, letting me lead her back to the library where Misha first told her she was a Petrov.
“Take a seat,” I tell her, smiling genuinely as I search the shelves for the small family album we kept.
Once I find it, I sit beside her and open it, flipping through each page filled with memories of days long gone, memories of who we used to be.
“We didn’t have much back then,” I explain. “So we didn’t always have the possibility of getting our picture taken. But one day, Sasha saw some distracted tourists and, well… got their Polaroid camera from them.”
“You mean Uncle Sasha stole it,” she teases. “You can say it, Uncle Kirill. By now, I’m aware that stealing is the lesser sin our family commits.”
That troubles me more than she knows.
“We didn’t have a choice, you know. Not really,” I try to explain.
“How so?”
“I’m not sure what Misha told you.” I hesitate, not wanting to piss off my brother by saying too much.
“He told me a little. Showed me my mother’s letters to him. But it’s not enough. I want to know everything about her. Everything about my family. About you and my uncles.”