13. Sandrine
Sandrine
Iwake slowly, tangled in sheets softer than anything I ever slept in while being treated at those facilities. Even the nice ones. The mattress feels like I think a cloud would.
For a few seconds, I just stare at the ceiling, disoriented by the silence. No buzzing fluorescent lights. No ward-mate crying through paper-thin walls.
The ceiling above is unfamiliar. Pale gold and edged with ornate crown molding I’d seen in those home improvement shows. This place screams expensive elegance that I never thought would be part of my world.
From the tall windows, muted morning light spills into the room.
Then my head throbs. Not sharp enough to cripple me this time, but enough to remind me what I have woken up to.
I’m in Chicago. Back in Chicago. I’m married to Kirill Volkov. And he’s the future Bratva Pakhan.
It all makes my stomach queasy.
A knock sounds at the door before it opens gently. I sit up, using the sheet to cover my chest.
Ksenia steps inside carrying a silver tray. She’s beautiful in a cold, polished way. She has the same sharp cheekbones as Kirill, now that I can see her more clearly.
“Good,” she says softly when she sees me sitting up. “You’re awake.”
She sets down the tray on a small table beside the bed. Eggs. Toast. Fruit. Fresh-squeezed orange juice. Real food. Not hospital food. Not rehab cafeteria food.
She stares at me while I push out of the bed. The room tilts for half a second before steadying again.
Ksenia notices. “You’re dizzy?”
“Sometimes.” I rub at my temple. “I was told I fell down a full flight of stairs.” My voice sounds strange when I say it out loud. Detached. “But I don’t remember any of it.”
“That’s probably for the best.” Sympathy flickers across her face.
“Am I really Kirill’s wife?” I ask with an exhausted exhale. “Did you see us get married?”
Ksenia straightens, not liking the constant challenge. “I was there. And so was my husband, Kirill’s enforcer Drago. We were your witnesses. Then you disappeared.”
My heart pounds unexpectedly. “I don’t know him.”
“You must get to know him.” She pours tea into a cup. “My father doesn’t have much time on this earth. Kirill will become pakhan when he dies. My brother will lead the Chicago Bratva. He needs a wife at his side.”
Sounds like a movie. Danger. Power. That part practically bleeds out of Kirill.
“Why is he so mean to me?”
“He’s been angry for a long time.” Her eyes lower briefly. “And hurt.”
A headache pulses harder behind my eyes, and I want to go home. Only a hollow feeling opens inside me because I don’t know where home really is.
The facility in Arizona?
The one before that in New York?
Lakeshore or Norridge here in Chicago?
That apartment in Forest Glen I dreamed about months ago?
Small sterile rooms, counselors, medications, and nurses hovering. Five years of trying to rebuild a person I couldn’t remember being. I had finally started feeling stable. Strong enough to maybe live on my own.
And now this. The idea of freedom and independence has been stripped from me. Apparently, I’ve been married this whole time. That means I can never live on my own again.
“Please eat,” Ksenia says gently. “You gave us a scare yesterday.”
“Us?”
Her expression turns serious. “Sandrine, you are the future queen of this Bratva.” The title sounds surreal in her soft voice. “You are very important.”
Queen. The word presses against my ribs uncomfortably.
“What if I don’t want to be important?”
The bedroom door opens again before Ksenia can respond.
Kirill walks in wearing black slacks and a dark dress shirt rolled at the forearms. His presence changes the vibe of this room instantly.
Ksenia straightens in his presence. “Good morning. Your wife is hungry and wants to eat.” She gives me a wink.
“Leave us,” he says, looking at me, not her.
And not my face. My shoulders. My bare shoulders. Thin straps of a tank top I found and slept in.
Without hesitation or argument, Ksenia nods to her brother and walks out obediently, shutting the door behind her.
“Can I sit?” Kirill asks, sounding friendly.
I nod carefully.
He lowers himself onto the edge of the bed, his large frame making the mattress dip beneath his weight. His gaze flicks toward the untouched tray of food.
“Please eat.”
I don’t know why I listen. Maybe because I’m hungry. I reach for a piece of toast and nibble the edge while he pours orange juice into a crystal glass.
“Thank you,” I say, clearing my throat. “For taking care of me. But now you know the truth. I don’t know you. I don’t want this.”
Do I? The uncertainty scares me more than the answer.
Kirill goes still beside me.
“The Sandrine I remember wanted to be my wife,” he says after a moment. “Accepted this life with me.”
“Please find someone else.”
Pain flashes across his face. “I can’t.”
“Why?”
He looks away, jaw tightening. “You will know why soon enough.”
Unease crawls through me. “Where is my sister?”
“You can see her when she gets here.” His attention snaps back immediately. “Ares and I are not enemies.”
I stare at him.
One dark eyebrow lifts slightly. “Okay, maybe now we are because I took you.” The corner of his mouth almost twitches. “But once you accept your life with me, you can see Lourdes anytime you want.”
“With guards.” I think about all the bodyguards Ares’s has. And Lourdes. The constant hovering she must endure being married to a mafia man.
“Sandrine—”
I shake my head fast enough to regret it when dizziness spikes again. “I don’t know who that is.”
His expression hardens. “You are Sandrine Volkov.”
The name sounds impossible to accept after believing I was Jessica Parker for five years.
Kirill reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a yellow, folded document. “This is our marriage license.”
He hands it to me. I resist touching it. The look on his face tells me this isn’t a game. So I take it. Throat tight, I open the folds. I’ve not seen a document like this before.
County of Cook
State of Illinois
Kirill Volkov. His age. 31
Sandrine De la Vega. My age. 19
Hereafter known as: Sandrine Volkov
“No signatures?” I ask, looking up at him.
“We signed the application. I can get a copy of that.”
“Please, because this doesn’t prove anything.” I toss it on the bed. “Anyone can print these out.”
Kirill stands so abruptly the movement startles me. Anger rolls off him, and I smell the change on his skin.
“I won’t keep you in a cell. Or in handcuffs,” he says. “But you must stay in this room until you’re stable enough to know the rest.”
My pulse quickens. There’s more? “Rest of what?”
“Moya zhena.” He looks at me. Really looks at me like there is a devastating truth he can’t tell me. “My wife. There is so much more to our story.”