6. Kirill – Six Years Ago
Kirill – Six Years Ago
Who is she?
Every Mid-West Iron holiday function had long since become tedious with the parade of investors, politicians, and union bosses who were as corrupt as the day is long.
Then I saw her. The world didn’t stop. It collapsed.
Through a thin seam of music and the low murmur of voices bleeding through, I saw the most gorgeous woman I ever laid eyes on. The chandeliers, the polished marble floor, the cut crystal, and the diamond cufflinks in the room dulled, dimmed, and bent themselves around a single point of focus.
Her.
She drew my gaze and held it there with merciless precision.
Her hair, spun golden silk, hung loosely and framed a face too sweet for a room full of men like me. The green dress she wore molded around her delicate body as she walked through the ballroom.
She radiated purity and softness, stopping me in my tracks. She wasn’t artificial or lacquered. In Chicago, we didn’t get many starlit women. Those were in New York, Miami, and L.A.
I preferred it here.
The brutal cold showed a man’s real colors, too. Their true grit. In New York, they say if you can make it there, you can make it anywhere. I feel the same way about Chicago. If you can survive the winter here, you’re made of iron.
It’s why my father named our construction business: Mid-West Iron.
Dragging my gaze away from the delicate flower I had no business being near, I watched Papa surrounded by vultures. Yuri Volkov was in his element, being sucked up to, while I lingered at the edges with one of his enforcers, Drago, and his fiancée, my older sister Ksenia.
“I’m done,” I muttered, rolling a glass of vodka between my fingers. “If one more man tries to shake my hand in order to pass me a note or a package for Papa, I’m going to cut off their hand.”
My sister shook her head at my threats like she did when we were kids. Her dark hair, like mine, was pulled back, not soft against her shoulders as she usually wore it. Even she changed around my father.
“You could always just talk to them like a normal person,” Ksenia chided me.
“I’m not normal.” I’ve always loved how she didn’t toe the line of a Bratva princess.
She was strong. Strong enough to handle one of my father’s most lethal killers as a mate.
“No, you’re not normal,” Drago said dryly beside me, his broad frame always on alert, his eyes always on his fiancée.
No one else. Ever. I fucking admired his devotion to my sister.
“That’s been well established,” I said, smiling.
It teased me to seek out the woman again. My attention was easily captured by the glow of her blonde hair bouncing off the chandeliers. She looked delicate. Too delicate for me. But something about me changed looking at her.
An older man in a conservative suit and a stiff posture grabbed her hand and pulled her toward him.
“Who is that?” I gritted out, rage firing behind my eyes.
Ksenia blinked at my uncontrolled tone of hatred and followed my line of sight to the pair standing near one of the tall windows.
“That’s Papa’s new accountant,” she said.
“Not the man,” I replied, impatience threading through my voice. “The woman on his arm.”
She looked too damn young to be his wife.
Ksenia’s lips curved faintly. “That’s his daughter.”
My chest tightened. Daughter. Young. Innocent.
“The accountant’s name?” I asked harshly.
“Thomas De la Vega,” Drago answered, getting in my line of sight. “And watch how you talk to my fiancée.”
Drago is different in this world of hard, brutal, and rarely faithful men. Like my father.
Without sparring any further, I set my empty glass aside and reached for another from a passing tray. My attention remained fixed across the room. I sipped at the sharp bite of Russian vodka flown in for the event that hit the back of my throat.
That shit had to be 150-proof, but it did nothing to slow the pull in my gut to speak to that woman. Not strong enough to stop me or to send me walking in the opposite direction like a man who knew better. No, it fueled me to be who I really am.
Bratva heir.
Future pakhan.
Keeping my face hard as stone, I crossed the floor with the confidence that had been carved into me over years of being in my father’s ranks. I smiled on the inside as bodies parted to let me through.
Toward the one thing in this room that made me feel alive again. The one person who looked like she didn’t belong here.
That’s who I wanted to meet.
“Mr. De la Vega,” I said smoothly with just enough authority to remind him who I was. “Welcome to Mid-West Iron. I understand you’re new. We’ve not met.”
“I know who you are.” His eyes flickered with recognition and caution.
He’d better know who I was. He’ll be working for me one day.
I turned my attention to the woman he held on to, as if he were in a room full of hungry bears. This polar bear might have found his mate.
When I glanced at her, she met my eyes, and the room fell away. “And who is this lovely woman?”
With a protective instinct, he said, “My daughter. Sandrine.”
The name slid over my skin like silk, settling deeper than it should have.
Sandrine.
I extended my hand to her. “Kirill Volkov.”
Her lips parted slightly as her fingers slipped into mine. They were warm and slightly trembling.
Her eyes were sharper than I’d expected, looking at me. A quiet strength flickered like a flame refusing to be smothered. It caught me off guard in a way nothing had in years.
Fuck…
“Mr. Volkov,” she said, her voice softer than a man like me deserved, but steady enough to hold its own. “It’s nice to meet you.”
The contact of our skin was so electric, I released her. A second more and I would have dragged her away without another word.
“Seeing as your father helped himself to the bar and neglected you, why don’t you join me for a drink?”
“She’s eighteen,” her father cut in sharply.
Eighteen. Her age screeched in my brain like a record scratch.
For the first time since I’d crossed the room, I paused. Not out of morality. Whatever scraps of that I still possessed had long since been carved away working for my pakhan father.
Something about this young woman felt older, more composed, stronger. Chicago-strong. Chicago-iron, like me.
Still, eighteen changed the shape of the situation I found myself in. Just not enough to end it. Just enough to make it interesting.
Before I could tell this accountant that if I wanted to talk to his legally-aged adult daughter, who he brought to a work function, I had that right so long as she didn’t object.
One of those union bosses approached us, pulling De la Vega into a conversation, saving me from making a scene. When another union boss from across the room signaled for De la Vega to join the others, he hesitated, glancing between his daughter and me.
“Sandrine, you stay right here,” he hissed at her.
Like that would somehow anchor her in place.
Like that would stop me.
The accountant walked off, knowing better than to tell me to fuck off and leave.
At least he had one functioning brain cell.
The moment his thick cologne stopped watering my eyes, the tension around Sandrine loosened.
Her shoulders relaxed just slightly. That little movement told me everything I needed to know about her relationship with her father.
Yet, when she looked at me, the awareness of heat sparking between us grew hotter.
“Water?” I asked, sounding less predatory and more…coaxing. “We do have other beverages besides alcohol. Your father should have gotten you something. That’s not how we treat people at Mid-West Iron.”
She nodded, taking in my words. “Some water would be nice.”
“Come with me.” I resisted touching her, but held out my hand for her to walk ahead of me.
I steered her away from the noise and down a side corridor.
“The bar was that way?” she pointed out.
“I have access to a private suite.” I held the door open. “It’s too loud in that room, and you don’t look comfortable.”
Her eyes raked up and down my frame. “I know who you are, Mr. Volkov.”
Christ, my cock twitched hearing her say my name like that. Somewhere I got a reputation as a playboy. A brutal one, if some tabloids and anonymous bloggers were to be believed.
Watching my father cheat and listening to my mother cry over it made me ill.
Drago wasn’t my blood, but my values aligned more with him than my father. He disgustingly indulged in mistresses who gave him bastards, none of who he ever acknowledged. As soon as Drago touched my sister, he never went near another woman. To me, that devotion made him stronger.
That was the man I wanted to be.
“You may know that I’m Yuri Volkov’s son. Heir to Mid-West Iron and his other holdings,” I don’t say Bratva outright. “But if you heard anything about me being inappropriate with women, you heard nothing but lies.”
She stared at me with a skeptical look. God, what had she heard?
I pointed to the door. “If you want to leave, you can.”
Sandrine hesitated, then stepped closer, signaling she wanted to stay with me.
Good girl.
The door shut behind us with a muted click, sealing us into an intimate space. I didn’t lock it. I didn’t need that hassle, rumor, or accusation.
“Let me get you the water I promised,” I said, gesturing toward the bar.
Her gaze flickered over the bottles lined up above the scarred wooden surface.
With the confidence that didn’t match her father’s warning, she said, “I’ll take a shot of that vodka you’re drinking.”
I huffed out a soft laugh and felt tears in my eyes. “That’s my girl.”
I reached for one of the bottles stocked in this bar. I poured two shots into two frozen glasses, handing her one.
“Cold,” she said, her long fingers wrapped around the thing.
“Vodka should be kept in the freezer and served in a frozen glass. Goes down smoother that way.”
“Cheers.” She clicked our shots, then threw the vodka back, the burn making her eyes water slightly before she swallowed.
“Rebel,” I murmured.
Mine…
She smiled with a spark of pride that had me imagining our fucking wedding invitations. “Maybe.”
I poured another shot and watched the edges of her nerves melt away.