52. Sandrine – Five Years Ago
Sandrine – Five Years Ago
The baby wouldn’t stop crying.
It had been like that for days, the desperate wail bouncing off every wall of the penthouse, threading through my bones.
“Please,” I whispered, my voice raw with exhaustion. “Violet, please stop crying.”
I pressed my lips to her warm forehead, tasting salt from her tears. But she cried harder, her tiny body vibrating. The ache inside my chest cracked a little wider with every broken sound she made.
My arms ached, not from holding her, but from rocking her frail seven-pound weight and from the tension running through my veins. I tried everything the doctor told me at our last visit, searches on Google, and websites for new moms.
Nothing worked. She wouldn’t stop crying.
Her tiny face flushed and scrunched with distress. Her little fists clenched as if one part of her was fighting the other.
Across the room, Kirill stood rigid, his hands braced against the edge of the kitchen island, his head bowed from the same exhaustion.
He had yet another sleepless night with me, with us.
Normally he’d return from his work on the streets of Chicago around three a.m. He’d shower and crawl in bed next to me, kiss me, make love to me, and pass out.
We’d not made love since Violet was born. I’m three weeks postpartum.
Last night was the fifth in a row that Violet’s colic wouldn’t let anyone sleep. Kirill’s patience looked stretched thin. I’d never felt so fragile and worried that anything I said would be the wrong thing until now.
“She’s been like this for nearly a week straight,” I said, my voice breaking as I shifted her against my shoulder, trying to soothe her. “I don’t know what else to do. The doctors just say to ride it out.”
Kirill dragged a hand through his hair, the dark strands flopping onto a forehead filled with stress lines. “She’ll stop,” he said with a strain in his voice. “Like they said.”
“When?” I asked, tears burning behind my eyes. “Kirill, she won’t sleep, she won’t eat properly, she just…cries.”
He didn’t answer me that time. Between her wails, tension sparked hot between us.
“You just need rest,” he said finally, rolling up his sleeves. “Give her to me.”
“Rest?” I repeated, bouncing Violet gently as her cries sharpened again. “How am I supposed to rest when she’s like this?”
“She needs you calm,” he shot back, his control slipping. “Not like this.”
Not like this.
“You think this is my fault?” I swallowed, forcing down the lump in my throat as I clutched our daughter closer, waiting for ten seconds of calm that didn’t come.
“Of course not.”
I stared at the clock on the stove. Every minute that ticked by heightened the dread in my heart.
“I need to see my father,” I said, the thought spilling out before I could stop it. “He called last week. He wants to see me.”
Kirill stilled with a shift so immediate the air between us seemed to tighten. “You’re telling me this now?”
“You’ve been working,” I said between sniffs. And, six days ago, I didn’t anticipate I’d be leaving my daughter like this.
“He made it clear, Sandrine. You’re dead to him.”
For choosing Kirill.
“He was angry.” I looked up through wet lashes. “Maybe he’ll know what to do.”
Kirill took out his phone. “Call him back and tell him to come here. You’re nursing. You’re weak. Violet is sick.”
“He said he wouldn’t set foot in your home. Not after the way you spoke to him.”
“The way he spoke to me,” he bit back and went to say more, but Violet’s screams drowned him out.
“Please,” I whispered, stepping closer, desperation bleeding into every word. “Just for an hour. I told him I would be there when he got home from work.”
His jaw ticked in irritation, that cruel look of his sharpening in a way that made my stomach twist.
“You already said yes?” he asked, his voice infinitely more dangerous.
“He’s my father, Kirill,” I said, the words breaking apart as they left me. “I just… I miss him.”
Tears spilled down my cheeks, feeling free that I’d gotten this off my chest. But Violet cried harder, shattering my two seconds of feeling good. I looked down at her, at her tiny face contorted with discomfort.
Gone was the perfect life we had created together. Replaced by a demon.
An evil spell cast on her by Kirill’s evil father. I shook that away. My perfect angel is still here. Somewhere.
“I’ll be back in one hour,” I murmured, more to her than to him.
I pressed a soft kiss to her cheek, inhaling the warm, lavender scent from her last bath.
When I held the baby out, Kirill didn’t move, didn’t reach for her.
My arms trembled as I stepped closer, forcibly placing our daughter into his arms. I kept our bodies touching, waiting for a reaction from him. I just got stiffness. I second-guessed myself briefly, worrying that leaving her might blow this up worse.
Finally, he took her, let her weight settle into his arms. My mind eased for just a few seconds.
He’s so careful. So natural with her. From day one, he’s been so good with her. Especially those scary few minutes after she was born and didn’t breathe.
He was nothing like my father said he’d be.
“I’ll be back,” I said again, rising onto my toes to press a kiss to his mouth.
But he moved back again. Not far. But enough. The message landed like a weight on my chest. He wasn’t happy with me. I saw it in the tight line of his jaw. The silence. Like the night I told him I was pregnant and he said all the wrong things.
That look of his as I stood there, wanting to leave, hurt more. We’ve gone backward.
I watched pregnancy classes online. This friction was normal. My hormones were out of whack, and fathers needed time to adjust to being second place to a baby.
We’ll get through this. We have to get through this. We risked so much to be together.
With my arms free for the first time in hours, I shook them loose. I didn’t bother brushing my hair or even looking in the mirror. I put on my coat and marched to the door.
“Sandrine,” Kirill called out to me.
I froze with my hand on the doorknob, but I didn’t look back at him. I wouldn’t change my mind.
“Take the knife.” He motioned to the closet where he keeps weapons.
“He’s my father, Kirill. He won’t hurt me.”
He shook his head, and I felt dumb. Na?ve. Exhaling, I went to the closet and selected the 4-inch fixed-blade spear point with the green handle.
“Happy?” I showed it to him.
“Put it in your boot.”
Shaking my head, I did and walked to the door.
“Sandrine!” Kirill called out to me one more time.
“What, Kirill?”
“I love you,” he said, making my heart pound. “One hour.”
Nodding, I left, my throat too clogged to respond.
In the parking garage, I hurried to my car. The one Kirill bought me after teaching me to drive.
He’d said one day when he’s pakhan, we’ll both have drivers and guards. God, I didn’t want that life. I hoped his father lived forever. Or– gasp – named someone else pakhan.
I wanted Kirill. Just him. No brotherhood. No billions.
Focusing, I climbed into the BMW with shaking hands. The strong scent of leather from new upholstery hit me. All I’d been smelling for days was Violet’s tears and her vomit.
Out on the street, I opened the window. The cold Chicago air hit me like a shock. But I needed real air. I’ve been inside for days. Only leaving for doctor visits.
The drive felt longer than it should have.
Every traffic light didn’t cooperate. Stealing minutes from me holding my daughter.
My hands tightened on the steering wheel as doubt about this visit crept in.
Or doubt about my whole life. I shoved that down.
I loved Kirill. I loved my daughter. I just didn’t know exactly what this life would be like. And that terrified me.
When I reached the house that my father had bought after getting his job at Mid-West Iron, it didn’t look the same. I’d moved out months ago while he was at the Dearborn Club for the night. The night Kirill told him I was pregnant and that we were getting married.
Kirill had done the polite thing and asked for Dad’s blessing, only to be insulted.
The way Dad yelled at me over the phone that night. The things he said. The threats he made. The demands. Mostly, that I was not to call my sister at school in Florida. Lourdes was having a tough semester, and he didn’t want her to be burdened by my mistakes.
My baby wasn’t a mistake, I screamed back and hung up.
But I didn’t call Lourdes, worried that I’d upset her. She’d be home in a couple of months. I’ll make it all right with her then.
Dad’s car was parked in the driveway, and lights were on behind the curtains. The sun had set while I was on the road, and I didn’t even notice. I dropped my phone in the cup holder and got out of the car.
Something felt off the moment I stepped through the door.
“Dad?” I called out from the vestibule.
He stood in the living room, looking at photos on the mantel. “You’re late,” he said without looking up at me.
His shoulders were tense, his posture rigid in a way that immediately set my nerves on edge.
“I have a baby at home,” I replied, my pulse quickening. “I needed to—”
He turned quickly, shutting me up. That angry look, eyes snarling, on his face stopped me cold for a reason I didn’t understand.
“You’re home now,” he said with the slightest hint of relief. “Now, we make things right.”
My breath caught. “Make what right? What do you mean, I’m home now? I live with—”
Movement behind him cut me off. A man stepped into view from the kitchen. Without seeing his face, I knew he was bad news. Older. Harder.
Adrian Chernov. Yuri Volkv’s enforcer. One of the most vicious men in the Bratva. At Mid-West Iron, he was Head of Security.
There was something about him that set every instinct in my body on edge whenever he looked at me. He’s the quintessential Russian mobster. Cold, lethal, and deeply wrong.
“What is he doing here?” I asked my father, my voice already shaking.
My father didn’t answer me.
“Where is that baby?” Adrian demanded instead, his tone flat, stripped of anything that resembled warmth.