52. Sandrine – Five Years Ago #2
The way he said that baby and not her name coiled dreadful panic inside me.
“She’s home,” I said, taking a small step back, the floor suddenly feeling unsteady beneath my feet. “With her father. Kirill Volkov, in case you both forgot. Son of the man you both work for.”
“We know who we work for,” Adrian replied coldly, not even flinching at my mention of Yuri Volkov.
“What do you want? Why did you really want me here, Dad?”
“You’re leaving,” my father said. “Go upstairs. Pack your clothes. Adrian’s men will take you to a safehouse. You can get away from that monster.”
“What?” I shook my head, confusion and fear tangling together in my chest. “I’m not leaving my husband and my baby.”
“He raped you,” my father snapped. “That baby is a child of rape. An abomination.”
“No!” The word tore out of me before I could stop it. “He didn’t rape me. I love him. He loves me.”
“I’ll take care of the child,” Adrian said with a steely voice filled with hatred. “Yuri won’t recognize it.”
It…
I tried to rush the front door, but it opened, and three men in leather jackets stood there. I couldn’t fight. Exhaustion got the better of me, and I felt ready to collapse.
“Get upstairs!” my father roared, the command cracking through the room like a whip.
Adrian caught my arm and forced me around. His fingers bit into my skin as he marched me toward the stairs. “Do as you’re told, girl.”
“Stop it. Let me go.” I twisted, trying to wrench free, but he held firm, his strength overwhelming.
“This is what’s best for you,” Adrian growled. “Best for the brotherhood. Your father said you’re an artist. I can set you up with a studio in Paris. You can eat croissants and paint to your heart’s content.”
My father lifted an envelope from the dining room table. “My lawyer already processed a new identity for you. You can live your life in peace.”
A studio in Paris? New identity?
My addled brain pictured it, and for a second, it seemed nice. Quiet. Then I heard Violet cry in my head and my stomach dropped.
“No. My name is Sandrine Volkov,” I said, panic rising fast. “Now, let go of me.”
With enough adrenaline, I was able to pull away. But with nowhere else to run, I climbed the stairs. My bedroom door had a lock. I could scream for help from the window. I could use the old landline phone to call Kirill for help.
The stairs in my father’s house seemed endless.
Cutting the house in half, it had metal spindled railings on both sides.
I remember sending toys down the steps, guessing which side they’d slip through and crash to the floor.
I didn’t know why I thought of Barbie dolls tumbling down the steps, blonde hair catching the light, and me laughing.
My breath came fast and uneven, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it might crack out of my chest. My room.
I just needed to get inside my bedroom. I managed to reach the door and slam it behind me, locking it quickly.
To my horror, my nightstand was empty. The phone was gone.
I rushed that way and tossed the nightstand over, breaking the lamp.
The jack was empty, too. The phone was removed.
I just stood there, shaking, trying to think past the panic clawing at my throat. I quickly crossed to the window, fumbling with the latch before pushing it open. With the cool night air rushing in on a rogue gust, I leaned out, my eyes scanning the yard below.
No!
More of Adrian’s men stood guard. Dark shapes were stationed all around the property, watching for me. I was trapped.
This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.
A sob caught in my throat as I pulled my head back inside, my mind scrambling for another option. I needed another way to get back to my baby, back to Kirill, back to the life I chose.
I remembered the knife in my boot. If I had to slash my way out of there, I would. Kirill owned this city. I could get away with murder. But will Adrian’s men kill me first? Is my father that desperate to keep me away from Kirill and my baby that he’d let the Bratva murder me?
Seconds later, there was a bang on the bedroom door.
“Are you packed?” My father jiggled the locked knob. “Open this door!”
“No, I want to go home,” I cried, my breasts aching and leaking. “My baby needs me. She needs to be fed.”
The door broke open, ripped from its hinges. My father stood in the fractured doorway, his expression dark and furious. Before I could move, before I could reach for the knife, he lunged, his hand closing around my arm again, dragging me back toward the hall.
“Let go of me!” I struggled, pulling hard, but I was so exhausted, my eyesight hazy.
We stumbled into the hallway, my feet slipping slightly against the polished wood. As I twisted, I wrenched my arm free just long enough to brandish the knife from my boot.
“Don’t come near me,” I warned, my voice shaking as I held the blade out in front of me.
My father froze. “You’re just like him,” he hissed.
“She wishes.” Adrian’s voice turned me around.
Blocking the stairs, he stood there, his eyes fixed on me with a cold, assessing intensity that made my skin crawl. And he was standing between me and my child, so I pushed my father away and lifted the knife.
“I am Kirill’s wife,” I screamed, hoping someone in his brigade would understand the gravity of this situation. “I gave birth to his child. The heir to this brotherhood. He will kill all of you when he finds out what you’ve done to me.”
“You silly child,” Adrian said, his furious voice mocking me. “You ruined everything. Spread your legs for our future pakhan. Got pregnant on purpose. Gold digger!”
“Now, wait a minute, Chernov,” Dad cracked. “Don’t talk to my daughter that way.”
“Shut up!” He smacked my father in the jaw.
Fury flooded my veins, and I lunged in a desperate move out of emotion and not coordination.
More panic than precision. Adrian caught my hand easily.
The man trained in a Russian military camp.
Of course, he’d block the knife. He twisted my wrist with a sharp crunch until the blade slipped from my fingers. It clattered uselessly to the floor.
His other hand came up, gripping my throat. “I gave you a chance,” he muttered with alcohol on his breath.
My sight dimmed as he forced me back, my boot heels hitting the edge of the top step.
“Chernov, what the fuck are you doing to my daughter?” my father yelled, but he was held back by other men.
I glanced behind me. The drop down this staircase and those metal rails was suddenly very real.
“Kirill was supposed to marry my daughter!” he snarled, his face inches from mine. “She is the woman he really wants. They spent all weekend together at my house in Belize before he met you. He married you out of obligation. I’m here to undo that.”
I tried to process the idea of Kirill with another woman. But he was thirty, rich, and heir to the Bratva. He admitted to being with other women. He just never told me he was supposed to marry one of them.
Adrian’s grip tightened, and he stared down at me. “After this, I’m going to kill that bastard child of yours.”
My father’s voice cut in, strained from being held. “Adrian, what are you doing?”
“Fixing the problem,” he replied without looking away from me. “The one you failed to take care of like I told you.”
For a split second, everything narrowed to the stairs my feet could no longer touch. The grip of Adrian’s hand against my throat tightened. With a final look of hatred in his eyes, he pushed me.
The world disappeared beneath my feet, and I fell backward.
My baby.
Kirill.
Those thoughts collided, frantic and desperate, clawing at me as I tried to reach for something, anything, to stop from falling. Nothing.
For a few seconds I felt like I was flying.
It was peaceful. I’ll be all right. The top of the stairs slowly faded.
Then my head hit the first metal railing, the force making the entire fall more violent.
More railings connected with my skull as each step also mangled my legs.
I reached the bottom of the stairs, and my skull slammed against the hardwood floor, unbearable pain exploding behind my eyes.
The ceiling above spun as my sight grew dim. A blinding crack of pain split through me, white-hot and then…
Nothing.