40. Sandrine
Sandrine
Iwake up smiling and for one blissful second, I’m happy. I no longer care about the missing memories or the headaches. Or even Tamara Chernova.
None of it matters because Kirill is beside me. Only, he’s…not here.
Patting his side of the mattress, I notice it’s already cool. The sound of the walk-in closet door creaking pulls me upright.
Kirill steps out, buttoning a black dress shirt, tucked into charcoal gray trousers. No tie. No fancy shoes. No suit jacket.
Smile fading, I ask, “Where are you going?”
He looks up, surprised. “I have a meeting.”
“A meeting?” I frown. “It’s Sunday.”
“Unfortunately, being the Bratva Pakhan doesn’t always mean I have weekends off.”
I watch him fasten his cufflinks as the night before flashes through my head. Not the coronation. Not the celebration. Not even how we made love when we got home.
A second ago, I thought Tamara was behind us. Did he agree to meet her today?
A cold knot forms in my stomach. “How long will you be gone?
“A few hours,” he answers, putting on his watch.
“That’s vague,” I snort.
“It’s meant to be.” One corner of his mouth lifts.
Only, I don’t laugh.
His expression softens slightly. “I’ll be home before dinner, dorogaya.”
Not moya zhena. Maybe he doesn’t want to think of me as his wife right now.
Before I can press further, he crosses the room and kisses my forehead. “I’ll make Violet’s breakfast. The nanny spent the night. Rest, baby. I took you hard last night.”
Does he have the energy to be with someone else?
Next, he’s gone, and I stare at the bedroom door. Counting in my head, three seconds, four, then five, I throw the blankets off and bolt from the bed. Pain shoots through different parts of my body. Legs, back, butt.
I should love the pinches here and there, but the idea that Tamara could be walking away from wherever the hell Kirill may be meeting her, the real pinch in my heart hurts more.
Moving slowly, I get dressed and put my hair up.
Downstairs, Violet sits at the kitchen island happily eating pancakes, the ones her father apparently made before disappearing.
Am I being paranoid for no reason?
“Mommy!” she chirps, pushing anxiety out of my head.
The nanny smiles from beside her. “Good morning, Madam.”
“Morning, Nadia,” I say, noticing she’s drinking coffee.
I kiss the top of Violet’s head. “Hey, sunshine.”
“Daddy made me pancakes,” she informs me. “My favorite, blueberry and peanut butter.”
“I see that.” I keep the snide out of my tone.
“Wanna bite, Mommy?”
While they look yummy, guilt isn’t my favorite flavor.
“No thank you,” I glance toward the windows and see Kirill’s Escalade is gone.
My suspicion grows, realizing that just one car is missing. My SUV sits near the mouth of the driveway. No guards or driver in sight. They keep to a new wardroom in the north wing.
“Would you mind staying with Violet for about an hour?” I ask Nadia.
“Kirill asked me to spend the day. Thought you’d need extra rest.”
How wonderful. He discussed wearing me out to the nanny. Given her age, I doubt he got graphic.
“I’d like to spend some time sketching.” My lie comes easily.
The nanny nods. “Of course, Madam. Take all the time you need.”
Violet is already turning another page of her book. Completely content. Completely distracted.
With no one really watching me, I tiptoe to the north wing and quickly glance through the window of the guard quarters. My driver is stretched out on a sofa, and all the guards on duty are sitting at a game table, playing cards.
My pulse jumps, noticing car keys just sitting on pegs outside their entrance door. No one notices me, so I grab what I know are keys for my car by the white rabbit’s foot the driver keeps on the ring.
This is either the smartest thing I’ve ever done, or the dumbest. It’s probably the latter, but I won’t be made a fool.
Ambling softly, I reach the Escalade I’ve been getting in and out of with ease for weeks. But hopping into the driver’s seat is like climbing into a tank. It feels enormous. And the damn dashboard looks more complicated than the cockpit of an airplane.
Staring at all the buttons, I remember Kirill’s words: I taught you how to drive.
Somewhere in my brain, I know what to do.
“Okay,” I mutter. “Come to me.”
I see the button below the steering wheel. START That seems obvious, so I press it. But nothing happens. Panic immediately follows. Then I notice a message flash over the steering column. PRESS brAKE
But I can barely reach the brake. I guess it’s best I found out before I got the car running. Something hits me, and I reach under the seat and feel a lever. Pushing it, the seat starts moving.
It’s coming back to me. I reach the brake pedal, press START, and the engine rumbles to life.
I nearly jump out of my skin. “Oh my God.”
Sitting in the back, I never knew the power of this car.
My heart pounds. Can I really do this? Giving the car a moment to warm up against the cold, I map out how the hell I’ll get out of here.
The windows are tinted, even the windshield has a coating.
The gate at the base of the driveway is closed.
I clocked how the driver just eases in front of it, gives a wave, and someone opens it.
How will I do this? I look around and notice the driver's cap sitting on the passenger seat. Without thinking, I grab it and shove all my hair underneath. I adjust the brim to also cover my eyes. I’m sure I look ridiculous.
Waiting for the memory of driving to reach my hands to steer, I tap my feet on the pedals to know how much pressure to put on both the brake and the gas. Comfortable, I ease the car into drive and with my foot on the brake, I let the car roll toward the front gate.
I can do this, but every second feels like an hour. The closer I get, the harder my heart pounds.
Don’t stop me.
Don’t stop me.
Don’t stop me.
One guard glances up, and I give that wave I see my driver do. And just like that, the gate begins to open. I know I should be concerned over how easily I could breach this security. But so much else is locked down.
When the gate closes behind me, I exhale so hard my chest hurts. I actually did it.
For another second, I think about the trust I’m violating. But if I find Kirill with another woman, stealing a car to do it will be the lesser evil.
When I turn on the street, however, I realize I have no idea where I’m going.
Then I remember Kirill telling me that my phone has a tracker.
For my protection. If he can track my phone from his, shouldn’t I be able to track his?
I look at the app, and smile seeing what I’ve come to know as a reverse icon.
I press it, and there’s Kirill’s phone, blinking along a map.
I tap it and next my navigation is set to follow him.
Is this a mistake? If I catch him in some back alley beating up a union boss and land myself in someone else’s hands, he will never forgive me. He will send me back to Norridge for shock therapy.
Okay, that seems a little extreme and ridiculous. I can’t be a mother if I’m lobotomized. Maybe he’ll be flattered that I love him enough – gasp – to care that he may be fucking the woman he was supposed to marry.
I place the phone in the holder, and grip the steering wheel. To follow my pakhan husband. If he’s meeting Tamara when he should have been in bed with me, or eating those pancakes with our daughter, I need to know why.
I drive for around twenty minutes. The feel of the car and road beneath the tires, how to steer, and how much to brake comes back to me. It feels natural. But I grow concerned when the streets narrow and turn much more rural.
The GPS’s destination flag pops up on a small plot of land with a tributary of water running behind it and stretching upstream.
The location feels eerily familiar. The more places I visit in Chicago, the more sparks fire in my brain, memories trying to break through. Had I been here before? With Kirill?
And yep, his Escalade is parked outside a brick building. That sickens me even more if he’s meeting another woman here. A war rages in my head, one side convinced Kirill wouldn’t cheat on me. He had every opportunity while I was missing, and rightfully so, if he believed I’d left him on my own.
The other side is protecting me from being a na?ve wife of a rich, powerful man. Could it be, now that he is officially pakhan, other expectations have surfaced? Does he feel more emboldened after being crowned?
I keep a visual sitting in my SUV dozens of feet away in a convenient bend in the road. But a black Mercedes drives right past me and stops next to Kirill’s armored Escalade.
My stomach drops, seeing a woman step out. I don’t have binoculars, and all I can see from this far away is that she’s got dark hair, but I can’t tell if that’s Tamara.
Kirill gets out of his car, and I hate how handsome he looks. How he’s smiling.
“Damn you,” I mutter as tears build up in my eyes.
As I wipe them away, my vision blurs. I see Kirill meet the woman at the door. They don’t shake hands, they don’t kiss hello. But he steers her into the building with a hand on the small of her back to lead her inside.
Jealousy punches me right in the stomach. I now get the fight or flight conflict. My muscles are burning to throw this SUV into gear and drive home to Iron Keep. Move back to a separate bedroom and be a mother to my daughter. Freeze Kirill out, and maybe he’ll get the hint.
That’s not who I really am, is it? I fought to be with this man once before. I might be setting myself up for more heartbreak or looking like a huge fool, but I won’t hide.
The Bratva doesn’t hide.
I heard Kirill say that again and again.
I put the car into drive and roll back onto the road. Heading toward Kirill and the mysterious woman. Because that man is mine.
Seeing the Escalade and the Mercedes getting bigger, and knowing Kirill’s guards are in that SUV, I know I have to gun it and run into that building.
So that’s exactly what I do. Hoping I don’t get shot.
Not much registers as I push the glass door open. I stop, noticing everything looks and smells new. There’s a waiting room with an empty desk that leads to an open space beyond.
Preparing to see Kirill on top of someone, under someone, naked, not naked, I was not prepared to see gold lettering stretched across a glass wall dividing two rooms that reads…my name.
SANDRINE VOLKOV STUDIO.