16. Kirill
Kirill
Ilead Ares and Lourdes through the house without speaking.
The weight of their intrusion, the inconvenience of having to deal with them on top of everything, has my nerves stretched thin.
Lourdes moves a step ahead of Ares, settling right behind me.
I never turn my back on an enemy, but I’m not sure who that is anymore.
I feel her restless energy. She’s frantic.
Ares, by contrast, walks slower, but he’s no less dangerous.
Glancing over my shoulder, I see his gaze sweeping over everything with a calculated calm that tells me he’s mapping exits, counting guards, and measuring the thickness of the window panes. His sharpshooters are legendary.
I bring the Greek king and his queen to the residential wing. He notices how shaky his wife is and puts his arm around her, the other hand resting on her stomach.
Christ, she’s pregnant.
Watching them shatters me. I went through all the stages of pregnancy with Sandrine. All the touches, all the love. And the added stress for what we had to go through as a couple. The secrets. But I also fell so deeply in love with her during those months.
Then she left me and ripped my heart out.
Left me to raise our child alone.
“Please, Kirill,” Lourdes says, her voice trembling as she tries to hold it together. “Where is she?”
I want to shout that it’s been one damn day.
I hadn’t seen her in five years. No one answered my pleas about where she was.
But I have to temper my rage. If they think I’m so angry that I might hurt Sandrine, I’ll have the entire Greek Mafia and all those Irish Mob lunatics he’s aligned with in New York at my doorstep.
They’ll be landing planes on my front lawn and helicopters on my roof.
Especially that giant Irishman with the scar on his face. Lachlan O’Rourke.
“Her bedroom is this way,” I say, pointing.
“She has a bedroom already?” Lourdes sneers.
“Her bedroom?” Ares asks, sounding snide and not letting me respond. “Not yours, Pakhan?”
I go to answer with the same sentiment, but I will take the high road. I am not the villain here. These two kept her from me when I proved to them she was mine.
I choose not to answer Lourdes. I just turn and hike to Sandrine’s bedroom suite. The walk should take less than a minute. I know every turn of this house, every stretch of corridor, every door and shadow. Today the distance feels longer. Like the corridors have expanded just enough to unsettle me.
I signal the guard to step aside, noticing he smells like cigarette smoke and the cold afternoon air outside.
At her door, I knock. “Sandrine, it’s me. I’m coming inside.” I push the door open, and immediately, something feels off.
I take in the empty space, and my blood slowly goes cold. I check the bathroom. The door is open, but there’s no Sandrine. Her scent lingers in the air, but she’s not here.
For a second, I simply stand there, her absence knocking me sideways. I’ve lived without her for five years, and I managed. With her gone from this room, a different kind of dread spreads through my veins.
“No, no, no.” I step back into the hall and bark to my unwanted guests, “Wait here. Both of you, do not move. This is my house.”
“Yes, Pakhan,” Ares answers with respect, and his easy compliance worries me.
Leaving them, I call Drago, but it goes unanswered. I try Ksenia next. Nothing. A cold, unfamiliar panic begins to creep in.
“Where the fuck is everyone?” I mutter, feeling unhinged. “Answer your pakhan!”
I move faster now, my strides eating up the distance. Cutting back through to the end of the residential wing, I check the adjoining rooms, the hall closets, guest bathrooms, everything. Each space taunts me with its emptiness.
When did Iron Keep get so big? It never felt like this before. I never had to search like this while stifling a surge of anxiety in my chest.
I round the corner toward the rear wing, my jaw set, my pulse a rising drum in my ears. I buzz past the library, casually glance inside, and stop dead in my tracks.
My gaze cuts through the open doorway where I find Sandrine sitting on the sofa.
With Violet.
For a moment, everything tunnels and goes hollow in my chest. Sandrine is pale, her entire body drawn tight and rocking.
Only then does Violet notice me.
“Daddy!” Her voice slices through the pounding of my heart. “This lady is scared!”
“Come here, Violet.” I reach out to her, relieved when she runs toward me.
No, she bolts and launches herself into my arms. I catch her and lift her against me.
My hand cradles the back of her head. “It’s okay.”
But my gaze never leaves Sandrine as her vacant eyes drift my way. There’s a fragile recognition lingering there. Not the kind I want.
She turns away to stare straight ahead, lips trembling. Christ, she looks like she’s about to pass out. Her breathing is uneven, her gaze not focusing. Her terrified face is a memory I buried a long time ago.
She’s breaking apart before my eyes. And in front of my daughter’s eyes. It’s happening in real time.
“Kirill?” Ksenia’s urgent voice cuts in from the arch behind me.
Drago is with her, hand in his jacket. We don’t face crises like this in our home.
“Take Violet to her bedroom,” I say to my sister, my voice low and controlled as I pass Violet into Ksenia’s waiting arms. “Now. Do not leave her alone. Drago, you stay.”
Violet protests immediately. “Daddy, no!”
“I’ll be right there,” I tell her, softer this time, pressing a quick kiss to her temple. “I promise.”
When they step away, I rush to Sandrine. Her hands clutch at her head as she continues to rock. A low, broken sound escapes her. It cuts a deep gash in my heart.
This must be an episode. Too much stress from her head trauma, perhaps. I sit next to her. My hands hover for a second before I dare to touch her, unsure if the contact will help or make it worse.
I need to research traumatic brain injuries to know the signs of an episode from the damage, know the triggers, and most importantly, the ways to comfort Sandrine. Because fuck, I want to comfort her. Her injuries and amnesia were words on a piece of paper last night. Now this situation is real.
“Sandrine?” I speak gently. “Look at me.”
Nothing.
I try a rougher voice to break through. My control is slipping despite all that I’ve endured. “Sandrine, look at me.”
She shakes her head, her eyes squeezed shut. Her breathing is so erratic, her entire body is caught in a loop she can’t break out of.
“Drago,” I snap, not looking away from Sandrine. “Get Lourdes. Now. They are in the residence wing outside her bedroom.”
“Yes, Pakhan.” His heavy footsteps trace my lighter ones from minutes earlier.
I lean in and whisper, “Your sister is here.”
I want to hug Sandrine, but I don’t know her touch sensitivities.
All I can do is watch the woman I once loved rock over and over, trapped in something I don’t understand.
What have I done?
Voices in the hallway overlap in quick, urgent bursts. Seconds later Lourdes explodes into the room, and I move away instantly.
“Oh my God, Jessica. I’m here.” She drops to her knees in front of Sandrine, who collapses against her sister, sobs coming hard now.
She didn’t want me.
Jessica, I’m here. They’re still calling her that. Why?
Because they still want to hide her from me. Anger settles under my skin all over again.
“Hey, Jess. Look at me,” Lourdes murmurs, her voice soft but firm.
They’ve done this before. I need to watch and learn.
Holding Sandrine’s hands, Lourdes whispers, “Breathe with me, okay? Go slow, as we practiced. In and out.”
Sandrine resists at first, holding back tears. But Lourdes doesn’t waver. She shows strength and steady patience. Watching them breaks my heart.
“Where is her medication?” Lourdes asks through strained teeth, not looking up at me.
“I—” Guilt catches in my throat. “I don’t know.”
I abducted my wife and didn’t ask about medication. The reality of how my actions have affected Sandrine settles over me in a way it didn’t before. God, I’m scum.
Drago puts a hand on my shoulder. “Pakhan,” he says, already pulling out his phone. “We’ll get her medication records from Marlowe. Whatever she’s on, we’ll have it here within the hour.”
Within the hour.
And yet, it feels like too long.
Ares pulls me into the corner by my suit jacket lapel. His expression hard, bordering on disdain. “Do you see what you did?”
I don’t answer.
“She needs to rest,” Lourdes says, hugging her sister.
“You know where her bedroom is.” I point, keeping my anger in check. “I’ll bring in her meds when they arrive. It’s only been since yesterday!”
Lourdes walks away, holding Sandrine, who doesn’t even look at me.
Ares doesn’t follow his wife. He stares at me like he wants to rip my head from my body and doesn’t want his wife to see all the blood.
I divert the situation. “Follow me, Zervas.”
“Kirill, you owe me some answers.”
“This is my house. That is my wife. You are a guest. When I tell you to—”
“You’re right.” He lowers his head. “Where are you taking me?”
“You’ll see.” I hike back through the maze of hallways to the kitchen.
Violet sits at the island, kneeling on a stool. With a small apron tied around her waist, she watches Nadia place a tray of cookies onto the cooling rack. The faint, sweet scent of sugar and butter hangs in the air.
With flour on her hands and a smudge of it on her cheek, she looks up the moment we enter.
“Daddy,” she says, bright again, as if the last five minutes didn’t happen. “I’m making cookies for the sad lady.”
Ares stops beside me. The shift in his demeanor is so immediate, it’s almost jarring.
“Daddy? Who is that?” he asks, low and curious.
“That’s my daughter,” I answer, the words coming easily despite everything else. “Sandrine’s daughter.”
“Oh fuck,” he curses.
“You said a bad word!” Violet waves her finger at him. “No cookies for you.”
Ares turns toward me, and the alarm in his gaze is almost amusing.
“She is why you cannot and will not take Sandrine away from me,” I verbalize, in case it’s not clear to him.
Ares staggers back, the horror in his eyes. He’s going to be a father. He knows this changes everything.
“And whether we like it or not, we’re family now, Zervas.”
He drags me a few feet away so no one can hear him. “You’re married. I acknowledge that. But do you still love her?” he asks, eyes searching. “You looked like you did in that video. But I know the man you are today.”
I go still, the answer an unwanted and undeniable truth I must face.
“I haven’t seen her in five years,” I say, my voice measured, controlled. “My daughter needs her mother.”
“And the rest?” he demands.
“We’ll figure it out.”
He huffs softly. “That’s a bullshit answer.”
Irritation flares in my chest. “It’s all I’ve got. Excuse me.”
I cross the kitchen and lift Violet down from her stool, brushing the flour from her cheek as I take her hands in mine.
She studies me for a moment, her small brows pulling together. “Is the lady still crying?”
I nod once, carrying her into the solarium where it’s warm from the winter sunshine.
Tell her in the sunshine…
Good news, bad news should be delivered with the sun on her face.
“Do you remember what I told you?” I ask cautiously, settling her on my lap. “About your mother?”
“She’s here, but she’s sick.” Violet goes very still, figuring out her own riddle.
Her eyes search my face with a kind of childish hope that makes my heart pound.
“The crying lady?” she says quietly.
“Yes, solnyshko.”
After a thin, fragile moment, Violet asks, “That was my mommy?”
“Yes,” I repeat, trying to be strong, but I’m dying inside, too.
Violet absorbs my response, her expression crumbling in small, subtle ways.
It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. I had it all under control. I had them separated. Then Ares fucking Zervas shows up and wrecked my plan. God, I want to hate him. But I can’t. I’d have done the same thing for Sandrine if the roles were reversed.
Wait, would I? Those feelings for her are coming back strong, and I don’t know if I want them.
“Why didn’t she say hi to me?” Violet asks after another dragged-out moment.
I brush my thumb along her cheek. “Because when people are sick like that, sometimes they get confused. She needs more time.”
“How much time?” she presses, sounding sad.
“A few more days,” I answer, kissing her forehead. “I’m making her better. For you. So she can be your mommy.”
Violet considers that, her gaze drifting toward the hallway leading to the stairs, as if she might run back up there anyway. “But why did she ask who I was?”
The question sets off a bomb in my head. I pull her closer, holding her there while I search for an answer.
“She’s confused,” I say. “She will remember you next time.”
Because she has to.