25. Kirill #2
The doctors at Norridge would have cautioned me, knowing I have a small child at home.
“No. I’m not sorry. You have some challenges,” I say, reaching my hand out to her. “But I promised to love you in sickness and in health.”
My using the word love makes Sandrine go still. She looks down at my outstretched hand and takes it. A spark I wasn’t expecting flies up my arm and warms my heart. But the mood is broken by the server arriving to take our food order.
Alone again, Sandrine touches her stomach and glances up at me. “Did I have a difficult birth?”
“It was,” I admit the truth to her. “You were young. It was your first baby.”
“Did you stay?” She swallows. “The whole time?”
“Yes.” I adjust my napkin. “It was close to thirty-six hours. I dozed off when you did.”
When another memory hits me, she pounces right away. “What?”
Cursing under my breath at how easily she notices, I say, “Violet wasn’t breathing right away. She was born blue.”
Sandrine clutches her throat. “Oh no. God, what happened?”
“Turns out, that’s normal.” I hold her hand again. “She just needed some extra care and attention to get everything moving. Then she cried. And didn’t stop.”
I’m pushed back into those difficult few weeks with Violet as a newborn. Part of me wondered if that’s why Sandrine left. She was young, worn out from the delivery, upset about her father not accepting us. Violet’s colic was bad, and we hadn’t slept.
Without her memory, I can’t ask. We have to move on if this is going to work.
Our dinners come, and we eat in moderate silence, commenting on the food here and there.
My plate empty first, I sit back and notice how she’s eating.
Her mannerisms. The way she holds her fork, her knife.
It all flashes back, walloping me. She’s still the same person underneath what she’s been through.
When the plates are taken away, she asks me, “What will I do? As your wife? Did I know what this meant before?”
“My father was still running the brotherhood with full strength,” I reply, rapping the table with my fingers. “We didn’t think about that. We lived for us. Not the Bratva. I did my job as heir, handled the assignments he gave me. But all I cared about was you. Us.”
Her eyes go glassy at that. “And now?”
I hold her gaze. “Right now, all you have to worry about is being a mother.”
“Can I resume painting?” she asks cautiously.
“You can paint,” I say easily. “Violet starts all-day kindergarten next year. After that, she’ll go to boarding school and—”
“What?”
“Boarding school,” I repeat, slower now. “Geneva Prep. It’s where I went. Where Ksenia went.”
“No!” Sandrine snaps.
The biting retort cuts through me. I’m caught off guard by the force of it. Not many people talk to me like this.
“It’s what I’d planned,” I say, leaning in.
“Did I know this before?” she asks.
I look down briefly, the truth sitting uneasily on my tongue. “No. I didn’t mention it. She was three weeks old.”
“I see.” She looks away. “I don’t want you to do that,” she says, her voice steady now, holding my gaze. Her confidence is taking shape right in front of me. “I’m her mother. I have a say.”
I study this version of her. A woman who doesn’t remember me. In her head, she just met Violet and me, yet she’s challenging me.
“We have time to discuss this further,” I say, raising a hand.
“How can you send her away? She’s a delightful child. A tough little cookie. That’s because of you, Kirill. You said she will lead your brotherhood someday. All a prep school will do is polish her up to be a bride.” She speaks so fast that she has to stop and cover her mouth. “I’m sorry.”
I tilt my head and consider what it would be like for the house to breathe in the absence of Violet’s spirit.
“It was an easier decision to make without you, Sandrine. I worried that when I assumed the throne, I wouldn’t be a good father.
With this new consolidation, there will be a lot of bloodshed.
And travel. I might not be home for days at a time. ”
“Her mother is home now.” She sits back and folds her arms, not even phased when I told her I’d be slaughtering people for days. “I will get Ksenia on my side.”
I smile, thinking of them ganging up on me. I don’t hate it.
I get the check and pay the bill in cash. Plus, a several hundred-dollar tip as a thank-you for the private accommodations.
“Now, let me show you your surprise.” I stand up and fix my jacket into place.
I take Sandrine back to Iron Keep, but down to the climate-controlled storage vault beneath our residence wing. The space is kept at a constant temperature, protected from sunlight, moisture, and the ravages of time.
Along one wall stands the custom storage rack I had built, filled with canvases. Every painting she left behind. Every piece of her.
Sandrine steps inside, and her body goes still. “Are these my paintings?” she asks, almost choking, her breath catching.
“They are.” I spent years tracking these down from people who bought her works online from anonymous estate sales that turned out to be that bastard lawyer Lew Jagger.
The weak link who eventually grew a bigger set of balls and handed one over to an auction house.
“I can’t believe I painted these.” She runs her hand across the textured surface, as I have done for many years.