28. Kirill
Kirill
The thought of Sandrine’s mouth sits hot in my chest as I head down the stone path toward my idling SUV where Drago waits for me.
When I reach him, he says, “I heard back from my contact in Vegas.”
“And?”
“Nico Scava has been seen around the city with that brunette.” He clears his throat. “Including his hotel.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Is this really my problem?”
“She’s your wife’s cousin.”
“We’re already tied to the Greeks now!” I grumble. When there’s no response, I see Drago’s thinking face. “What?”
“Have you told Sandrine about what happened to her father?”
“No.” I shake my head. “She’s not ready to hear that.”
“She might hear it from someone else eventually.”
I’m about to argue when shouting cuts into my brain from across the courtyard.
My father wanders from the office wing in nothing but striped silk pajamas and slippers. He storms across the courtyard, toward the rear property, high drifts of snow soaking through his hems. His silver hair is disheveled, his face mottled red with fury.
“The garden!” he bellows at no one. “Look what they did to my fucking garden!”
Sandrine and Violet’s footprints and snow angels are everywhere. Evidence of joy that my father sees as a crime scene.
Two guards stand nearby, terrified to touch him. Even now. Even half-dead and out of his mind.
I march through the snowfall to the winter playground my wife and my daughter made.
“Papa!” I yank off my coat and stride toward him. “What the fuck are you doing out here?”
He jerks wildly toward me. “You did this. You brought her here. And now they ruined it,” he snarls, gesturing violently at the snow.
I drape the coat over his shoulders even though he fights me. I’ve not touched him in months. Fuck, maybe years. His body feels frighteningly thin beneath the silk pajamas. Bony. Like death already has its hands around his throat.
Good…
“Drago,” I bark.
My enforcer immediately moves toward the path, expression hardening when he sees what I’m dealing with.
Together, we walk Papa back into the mansion. The guards lower their heads as we pass through the entrance that leads straight to the north wing. None of them meet Yuri’s eyes.
Even like this, they still fear him. By the time we get him upstairs, my father is wheezing and coughing blood into his fist.
I shove the bedroom door open, furious that it’s empty. “Where is the fucking nurse?”
Drago shrugs. “A break, maybe? She’s entitled to one. He’s not left this room in months.”
I ease my father down onto the mattress harder than I probably should. He glares at me from beneath watery, bloodshot eyes.
“You ruined it all,” he mutters.
Drago disappears down the hall, probably looking for the nurse before I fire her.
I start unbuttoning my father’s soaked nightshirt. His skin looks paper-thin with purple veins and ugly bruises from blood thinners. He’s a shell of the monster who once ruled Chicago with an iron fist.
Then he grabs me, forcing me to meet his eyes. “She’s a mistake.”
“Keep your mouth shut,” I mutter through clenched teeth.
“Sandrine De la Vega…” He hisses her former name in a taunt, not acknowledging she has his name now. “You destroyed everything for that girl.”
My hand tightens on the blanket. “I destroyed nothing. Our brotherhood not only stands, but I am on my way to being the American Pakhan. Something you never had the guts to try or the grit to even want.”
“You should have married Tamara,” he rasps. “You should have put the child with that sister of hers and moved on.”
At the mention of Violet, something cold races up my spine. “I would never give away my daughter. Your heir. No matter who her mother is.”
“A mother who vanished. A woman who couldn’t stand you.” Papa leans back against the pillows, breathing unevenly. “Tamara would have stood beside you and been your queen. She’s not an embarrassment. She was trained for this life.”
Tamara.
Hearing her name makes me sick.
“She understood duty,” he continues bitterly. “Not like your little artist whore.”
Fury. Dark, rotten fury shifts in my chest. An anger unlike any I’ve known.
I pull a knife from my jacket and put it against his throat before I can stop myself. “You don’t speak about Sandrine again.”
Suddenly my father’s expression changes. Confusion flickers across his face.
“Where…” He looks around slowly. “Where the fuck am I?”
I breathe out. He’s deteriorating. This can’t happen again.
His eyes dart toward me, tears flowing over the red rims. No more authority. Just an old man trapped inside a failing body. “Kirill?”
My throat tightens unexpectedly. “I’m here. Go back to sleep.”
I can’t believe I used to love him. Now there’s nothing left to hate anymore.
The nurse comes in, frantic, carrying a syringe. “Mr. Volkov, I’m so sorry. He was napping. I was preparing the pakhan’s lunch.”
“It’s fine.” I hold her back from giving him a shot. “Go finish the lunch.”
“Yes, sir.” She bows and goes to leave, but I grip her arm.
“You call me Pakhan from now on,” I practically growl. “Do you hear me?”
She swallows nervously. “Yes, Pakhan.”
I look toward Drago standing near the doorway as she passes him. When she’s gone, he closes the door and strides toward me.
When he gets close, I wave the knife. Drago’s face hardens with the immediate understanding of what I must do. For the safety of the brotherhood. There are still guards who are loyal to him. There can never be any doubt of who is in charge here.
While my father lives, he could very well get word to the Vory. Call another vote. Choose another heir and next… I can’t even think it.
“He dies,” I growl to Drago. “Today.”
Drago nods and stands guard.
The knife sits in my hand with both comfort and terror. Until I’m somewhere else entirely.
* * *
Blood filled my mouth. I spat it across the dirty cement floor and at my father’s feet as another punch snapped my head sideways.
The warehouse blurred around me. The smell of diesel from dump trucks and rusted iron pipes filled my nose. Nothing distracted me from the pain. So much fucking pain.
Papa stood over me, breathing hard, his rings stained red from my blood. “You betrayed the brotherhood,” he roared.
A kick slammed into my ribs. I grunted but stayed upright on one knee.
“You humiliated me,” he snarled. “I present you with a suitable wife, and you secretly marry my accountant’s daughter, impregnate a little whore, and defy me publicly?”
From the table behind him, he grabbed a whip, snapping it to the floor in a sharp crack.
The whip. Used on traitors.
Drago grabbed his arm before Yuri could strike me with it.
“Pakhan,” he warned his father-in-law. “That’s your son.”
Adrian Chernov, Papa’s most lethal enforcer, shoved Drago away. Of course, Tamara’s father would be present to witness this.
“Thomas De la Vega handles your billions,” I shot back hoarsely, wiping blood from my mouth. “But his daughter isn’t good enough for me?”
The answer was a brutal strike across my back. Then several more.
“Papa, stop!” Ksenia cried out from somewhere behind us, but he ignored his daughter completely.
“She trapped you,” Papa hissed at me. “You stupid boy. She got pregnant on purpose. She wants your money. My money.”
Rage exploded through me so fast I saw black. “Fuck you, you’re wrong.”
I pulled the knife from my waistband and everything stopped.
My father stared at the blade for a long moment. Then at me. Maybe for the first time in his life, Yuri Volkov realized I was no longer afraid of him.
His nostrils flared before he finally stepped back. “You’ve betrayed me,” he snarled. “Betrayed the brotherhood. Go on, destroy yourself for her.”
Ksenia sobbed quietly in the shadows while blood dripped steadily onto the cement. But all I could think about was Sandrine.
Pregnant.
Waiting for me.
Drago went to help me up, but I swatted him away. My face a mess, one eye closed, broken nose, a lung possibly collapsed, I got to my feet.
Looking at my father, I growled, “Touch me again, and you will eat this knife.”
* * *
That same knife sinks into my father’s chest with horrifying ease. His eyes snap open. A wet choking sound leaves him as blood floods instantly over my hand.
“I warned you, Papa.” I stab him again. And again.
Years of rage rip loose inside me.
For Sandrine. How he treated her, spoke about her.
For Violet. How he never even held her.
For every fucking bruise I endured as a child, then as a young bratok in his ranks. And finally, that time he nearly killed me.
With animalistic grunts, I continue to plunge the knife into his hollowed-out chest. My breathing sounds ragged, and I’m wheezing almost as bad as he is. Blood pours across the sheets in thick dark waves.
My father’s body twitches once beneath me before finally going still. Then silence crashes down over the room.
Drago catches my wrist before the next strike lands. “Kirill.”
I look at him, knowing I’m covered in blood. “You have something to say to me?”
Drago lowers his head toward me. “Pakhan.”
That hits differently now. Because it’s real. It’s undeniable.
I stare down at my dead father and feel nothing. “The brotherhood is now mine.”
“I’ll tell my wife,” Drago says hoarsely, going to be the strong husband to tell my sister our father is dead.
“Then call the coroner on our payroll.”
“Yes, Pakhan.”
I look at the blood soaking my hands. I hadn’t thought about that beating in years. Much of it I forgot. A coping mechanism.
Today it came back in vivid waves. That beating I got was for Sandrine.
And his death by my hand today is also for her.