32. Kirill
Kirill
It’s been five days since Papa died. And Iron Keep isn’t any quieter. It just feels different since his death.
My father’s internment had been exactly what a Bratva Pakhan’s funeral was supposed to be. Excessive. Dark. And guards with long guns positioned nearby the entire time. I notified other family heads of his death and that they were not invited.
But Yuri Volkov was a powerful Chicago businessman. Politicians and union bosses showed up, their cars stretched for blocks outside the Russian Orthodox church. The city’s power players showed up too, eager to be seen revering my father. And finally, the scourge showed up out of fear, not loyalty.
No one cried. Not really.
Sandrine and Violet stood at my side as they lowered Papa into the ground beneath a custom marble monument with gold lettering large enough to rival the others in the cemetery’s old-money section.
Men will visit that grave for years, paying respects to another dead Chicago gangster who in time will be romanticized as some sort of hero for the city.
To me, he will always be a monster.
I didn’t bury him next to my mother, who is in a different cemetery with her family. She hated him long before Ksenia, and I knew better.
After three days of that mess, the last three days that Yuri Volkov mattered, I walked away from his grave with no intention of ever going back. From now on, he is what the rest of the world will remember him as.
A dead king.
The estate lawyers spent the next two days sorting out Papa’s holdings. Billions are tied up not only in Mid-West Iron, but also in other buildings in the city, land in Russia, stocks, bonds, shell companies, and offshore accounts. As executor, everything came through me first.
Ksenia will receive half, whether my father wanted her to have that much or not. My father believed daughters were property, not heirs. But she is a Volkov.
I may have split the money evenly, but the power belongs entirely to me. I am Pakhan now. But Ksenia will always have a place in my leadership.
After meeting with those lawyers all day, I step into what is now my home, my power center. I don’t bellow my presence like Yuri. Men do not erupt around me with questions or boisterous reports of street fights, as they did when my father returned home.
All suck ups.
I’m already a different pakhan.
In the kitchen, the last of the day’s sunlight spills in through the tall windows. Violet kneels on a wooden chair, hovering over the island, tiny fingers dipped in purple and white paint.
Sandrine sits beside her with her head tipped slightly as she watches our daughter with a sense of familiarity that rocks me, given it’s only been a couple of weeks.
For a moment, I simply watch.
Violet’s laughter spills away from her and finds my heart. “Look, Mommy, I made a flower. Just like yours.”
Sandrine lifts the picture with paint-smudged fingers. “You did it!”
There is something so tender and soft about the scene. Men like me don’t deserve to witness the beautiful side of life. Yet nothing has ever fit so easily into this house. Nothing has ever been as beautiful in that messy, sunlit moment.
I shudder, seeing how my life could have unfolded.
Violet gave me a reason to keep going, but she never completely filled the space Sandrine left behind.
I take a breath and enjoy my stroke of luck.
After so many dead ends, I pulled one thread correctly.
Bam. That lead about the auction is something I could have easily overlooked.
Now she’s mine again. I put everything into place where it belongs.
I remove my suit jacket and fold it over a chair. Violet sees me first, her head snapping up.
“Daddy!” She’s on her feet, racing toward me with bright streaks of paint still glistening on her tiny hands.
“I’m home.” I catch her as she collides into me.
I lift her easily despite the paint-slick palms pressing against my shirt. Raw silk that costs more than most men make in a month. I don’t care.
“She got you,” Sandrine says, ambling toward us. “It’s watercolor. It will come out.”
“I don’t mind being your canvas, solnyshko.” I glance at Sandrine over Violet’s head.
Yours, too.
Violet smells like soap and sugar. She’s warm and wiggly. And healthy. No hint of that nasty cold from last week.
“I missed you today,” Violet confesses easily.
“I missed you, too,” I say, and cradle the back of her head as she laughs into my shoulder.
My gaze stays on Sandrine as she watches us. She gives me this moment with my daughter, looking unsure if she should join in the hug. Her eyes search my face and then drift down to my arms like she wants in.
I smile, shift Violet to one side, and hold out my hand for her to join us.
Sandrine visibly swallows and nods, coming toward us. She folds into my other arm, and she feels steadier now than she did two weeks ago. Her mind was altered, but her body is the same.
There’s a faint flush along her cheekbones as she rests her head against my chest.
“This feels nice,” she whispers.
“It does,” I agree and kiss her forehead.
But I set Violet down reluctantly, smoothing a hand over her hair before she darts back toward her paints. She trusts that I’m here to stay home for the night.
“We have something to discuss,” I say to Sandrine, my voice sharpening to mark the change in my focus.
“Okay.” Her spine straightens, transforming from mother to wife.
My wife.
Fuck, if a growl doesn’t grow in my chest as well as my cock.
“The coronation,” I continue, ignoring the surge in my pants. “It’s set. Everything is in place.”
She nods slowly. “Ksenia has been briefing me.”
Safety and hiding are not the truth of this life. I went to extraordinary lengths to make Sandrine De la Vega part of this world. I won’t build anything false between us.
“We will be crowned together,” I say, already feeling like a king.
Her jaw twitches. “It’s why you needed to find me. To take your place.”
I exhale. “No. It’s not the only reason I hunted you.”
Her gaze holds mine, searching, questioning if it was only to be a mother, then. The longer she’s here, I want my wife back, too. I can’t remember the lines I’ve drawn and the distance I intended to keep.
I reach for her as if the old version of us is breaking through. “I never stopped wanting you by my side.”
“Only at your side?” she asks.
“At my side. Under me. On top of me,” I growl and back her into the hallway that leads to the stairs. “Your husband, the pakhan, needs to fuck his wife.”