23. Kirill – Five Years Ago
Kirill – Five Years Ago
Itracked Thomas De la Vega down at the Dearborn Club. I would have questioned why an accountant could afford an expensive social club like the DC, but De la Vega’s suspicious finances were far down the list of my concerns.
He sat with two men in a circle of three wing-back chairs and a round cocktail table in the center. A humidor of cigars, a carafe of cognac, and sparkling glasses signaled he and his guests had a satisfying night ahead of them.
I smiled at the idea I was about to fuck that up.
I wasn’t a member there, but I got into any club in Chicago just by showing up. In my most expensive suit, my hair coiffed back, a Rolex on my wrist, and onyx and diamond men’s rings on several fingers, I strode up to the little pathetic party.
De la Vega’s two guests saw me and uncrossed their legs. Pale-faced, they were ready to flee. Thomas looked up from his glass, irritation quickly forming across his face.
“Kirill Volkov,” De la Vega muttered, putting down his drink.
“We’ll let you and Volkov talk,” one of his buddies said and grabbed the other to get the hell out of there.
“I’m not working right now,” De la Vega said, sitting back.
“My father pays you well. If you want to keep your job, you’ll give me ten minutes.” I hovered, waiting.
His jaw tightened, but after a second, he gestured stiffly toward the chair across from him. “Make it quick.”
I sat, adjusting my cuffs while he studied me with suspicious eyes. Good.
“I will make this quick.” I leaned forward, a pointed finger resting on the table. “I love your daughter.”
De la Vega’s lips pursed as if the words had physically offended him.
“I want to marry her,” I continued when he said nothing in reply. “I’m here to give you the honor of asking your permission.”
An awkward silence heavy enough to crack marble stretched until he laughed. Not because it was funny. Because he must have thought I had lost my fucking mind. Me, the supposed playboy, settling down.
“No,” he said, getting comfortable in that chair.
I leaned back. “She already said yes.”
“She doesn’t know what she’s agreeing to.” His voice sharpened instantly. “The life you’re forcing on her. She’s a child.”
“She’s nineteen.” I cringed a little, knowing how it sounded.
If I were ever in the same position and a thirty-one-year-old man asked to marry my nineteen-year-old daughter, that man wouldn’t leave my sight with his head intact.
But Sandrine and I were in love.
“Sandrine is a na?ve girl,” her father said, dismissing her maturity.
“She’s an artist,” I countered. “With promise. She’s an apprentice for Amon Fritz.”
His jaw ticked, recognizing the name because the man is all Sandrine talked about. But Fritz turned her down, and her father didn’t even think to ask his boss, the head of the fucking Chicago Bratva, for a favor to change that artist’s mind.
But I did.
“All the more reason to let her shine.” De la Vega’s fingers tapped his armrest. “Give her a chance to find her wings. You think because your father runs this city you can take whatever you want.”
I know I can.
My patience thinned, but I kept my expression calm. “She loves me.”
“She’s infatuated with you,” he scoffed. “You’re dangerous, violent, unstable—”
“You forgot wealthy.”
“I know exactly what you are, Kirill.” His eyes flashed with arrogance. “I’ve seen the money thrown at your disasters. Assault charges. Speeding tickets. Bribes. Gambling debts. Do you think I would ever let my daughter tie herself to a man like you?”
“That was before.”
“What about Tamara?” He leaned forward. “Your father has an offshore fund I’ve been managing specifically for your wedding. Does my daughter know about your weekend fling with Tamara in Belize last year?”
I exhaled slowly through my nose. That wedding was never going to happen. And that weekend was a mistake.
“I didn’t want our conversation to go this way. Now I have to play dirty.” I reached inside my jacket and placed the sonogram photo onto the table in front of him. “Sandrine is already mine in every way that matters.”
De la Vega’s eyes widened, picking it up. Everything in his world just changed. His face drained of all its color.
“What is this?” he groused, violent fury quickly rushing into his eyes.
“You know what it is.”
His hand clenched around the paper hard enough to wrinkle it. “Where is she?”
“She’s safe.”
“Where is my daughter?”
I stood slowly this time, buttoning my jacket while his breathing stalled. “In my penthouse. The one with guards. She’s painting. She’s happy. And she’s having my child.”
“You’re lying. There’s no way she could ever be happy with a man like you.”
“You don’t know your daughter at all.” I tilted my head slightly. “You don’t even know she’s pregnant with my child. You think I’m a terrible man. You’re a terrible fucking father.”
“Watch your mouth, you little prick.” The violence in this man’s voice suggested he wanted to kill me.
Two of my guards immediately came up behind my chair and two more behind his.
De la Vega glanced at them and leaned back.
“Don’t ever think that because my father trusts you with the Bratva’s money, you have the right to speak to me like that.” My voice dropped lower. Colder. “I am going to be Pakhan when he dies.”
The truth said out loud sounded more ominous than inside my head. Everyone who worked at Mid-West Iron knew who the Volkovs really were.
“Your father will never let you marry my daughter,” De la Vega tried one more tactic.
“I’m marrying her whether you like it or not. Whether my father likes it or not,” I said finally and grabbed the sonogram photo. “After tomorrow, your daughter will have my name. And so will all your grandchildren.”