54. Kirill
Kirill
“Wait!” Sandrine yells. “My father. His car crash. Was it an accident?”
Drago and I exchange looks, and he narrows his eyes at me.
She’ll find out from someone else.
Fuck…
“Did he kill my father?” she asks, looking at Chernov’s dead body.
Sandrine needs to know the final truth. I was given my closure. She deserves the same.
“Sandrine. About your father…”
Her shoulders tighten, and she turns to me with tears in her eyes. “You killed him, didn’t you?” She sniffs. “I don’t blame you, but—”
“I didn’t kill him, baby.” I take a breath. “But I’m responsible for his death. I dragged him to my warehouse after you went missing. Questioned him for hours about where you were. He said he didn’t know. Told me you never showed up. Said you must have left me and I deserved it.”
“Kirill,” she cries. “I’m sorry.”
“I beat him myself. Badly. I wanted him to die. Days had gone by. But I needed him alive, if there was a chance I could find you. I put him in his car. And let him drive off.”
He passed out behind the wheel and wrapped his Mercedes around a tree. His injuries from my beating contributed to that accident.
“It’s my fault, Sandrine. All of it, including you having to live in that horrible state-run place.”
Had De la Vega lived, Jagger never would have stolen the money for her care, and she wouldn’t have had to spend those years at Lakeshore.
“No, it’s that monster’s fault.” She walks up to Chernov.
She looks down at the man who stole five years from her, from us. Who tried to steal forever from us.
“You bastard,” she yells, lips snarled, then she spits on him.
Before I can react, she kicks him in the kidneys. Once. Then again. It’s not graceful, and there’s no restraint. She unleashes raw, unfiltered fury that she’s been holding back and finally has a place for it to land.
God help me… I feel dark lust curl low in my groin. There she is. My wife. She’s not broken or fragile.
She’s mine.
Still, I step in before she can go further, before the rage consumes her entirely. I know what that’s like and what it can do to the soul. I wrap my hand around her waist and press my lips to the back of her neck.
She jerks slightly at my attempt to anchor her. Twisting in my hold, she stares with glassy but burning eyes.
“You need to rest,” I whisper. “It’s almost morning. I’ll have the nanny wake up Violet and get her to school.”
Sandrine blinks at the mention of Violet. Our daughter grounds her, pulls her back from the edge. “I’ll do it. I’m fine. Emily’s mom asked for a playdate. I won’t make the nanny tell her no. I’ll—”
“Go,” I ground out. “Take Violet to the playdate.”
“Are you sure?”
I huff out a breath that might almost be a laugh, brushing my thumb over her knuckles. “I have to get a dead body out of the house.”
Her mouth twitches. It’s not quite a smile, but close enough to loosen the tightness in my chest. My voice returns to that calm, controlled register that defines everything I do.
“Clean this up,” I say to Drago without looking at the rest of my men.
“Yes, Pakhan.” Drago is already moving with the deadly efficiency of an enforcer.
I guide Sandrine toward the entrance. My hand settles on the small of her back, steadying her as we go.
“I can walk,” she says with a new solidness to her spine.
“I know,” I murmur, but I don’t let go.
At the threshold, she turns to me, rising onto her toes before I can anticipate it. She presses her mouth to mine in a brief kiss.
“I love you,” she whispers against my lips, her voice breaking just enough to make my balls tighten. “I didn’t leave you. I didn’t leave Violet.”
Her eyes search mine like she needs to know that I believe her. Finally.
“I didn’t want to believe that you did,” I admit, my voice rougher now. I cup her cheek, my thumb brushing beneath her eyes. “Now we know the truth.”
Her breath shudders out. “What about Tamara?”
My jaw tightens, hearing that name. The source of all of this. “I’m handling that next.”
I have something that will make her wish she were dead. Or someone.
Sandrine folds her arms. “Good, because the next time I’m in a room with her, I’m going to publicly shame her.”
“I’m getting hard just picturing it, dorogaya.” I press one last kiss to her forehead before I let her go. “Now, go rest. Let Nadia take Violet to school, then you pick her up. Take her to her friend’s house with your new guards.”
“Thank you,” she says, hugging me.
My wife walks away, her steps slow but steady. She’s got this. When she disappears down the hall, I let the softness drain from me completely.
“Pakhan,” Drago says from behind me, his voice low and measured. “Our men have detained Tamara’s guard. We are ready.”
A slow smile pulls at my mouth. “And Eduardo?”
Interest sparks in his eyes. “En route. The warden says hello.”
“Send him a case of what he likes to drink.” I glance once more at Adrian’s dead body, then back at Drago. “And have the cleaners here immediately. This is my home. Where my daughter plays.”
“It will be done, Pakhan.” He’s already reaching for his radio, issuing my orders as men move in to handle the mess I made.
I don’t stay to watch.
* * *
The townhouse door barely has time to open before everything gets chaotic, really fast.
Tamara sees us and tries to slam it shut, panic flashing across her face, but Drago is faster. His one boot hits the door, forcing it open as he steps inside. His presence fills the space like a storm rolling in.
“This is the pakhan,” he barks to her. “You will give him your attention.”
Dressed in a satin robe and nothing else, she stumbles back, fear in her gaze. “Where’s my father?”
“Dead,” I tell her.
My blunt reply makes her double over and hold her stomach. She collapses onto the carpet with a broken sound tearing from her throat. Tears spill down her face, her hands shaking as she tries to process it.
I crouch in front of her, reaching out to grip her hair, not harshly at first, just enough to force her to look at me.
“I’m not going to kill you,” I say, my tone almost conversational. “Even though you’ve made it your mission to hurt my wife.”
Relief floods her expression so quickly it’s almost pathetic. “Thank you,” she gasps.
I grip her hair harder. “Thank you, what?”
“Thank you… Pakhan.”
I release her and straighten slowly. “I have something much worse for you than death.”
Her eyes widen, confusion cutting through the fear. “What?”
“You should stop drinking,” I say mildly. “You confess all your secrets when you’re drunk.”
Her face drains of color. “What do you mean?”
“Let him in,” I tell Drago.
The air shifts when a man steps inside, his presence coiled with violence in a way that even my men respect with caution.
Tamara’s gaze snaps to him. A primal, terrified wail breaks from her throat. She scrambles backward, shaking her head. “No… No!”
“There you are, wife,” the man says, his voice lethal.
Her back hits the wall. “Eddie!”
Two of my guards hold him by the arms, his hands still in cuffs, his legs in irons.
“On one of our dates a few months ago, you drunkenly told me you married the head of the Ramirez Cartel after a night of partying with him.”
“Eddie, what are you doing…out?” She looks ready to start convulsing. “He’s a monster, Kirill.”
“I got his sentence commuted.” I glance at Eduardo Ramirez, then back at Tamara. “You married a vicious murderer. He’s your husband. But till death do you part.”
“Mikhail!” she screams for her guard.
“Mikhail works for me,” I bite out. “Your husband will arrange for your protection now.”
The only real protection she’ll need is from that husband of hers.
I walk over to Ramirez. “You owe me.”
“I’m at your service, Pakhan.”
I unlock his shackles and put a hand on his shoulder. “Wait until we leave before you start punishing her.”
“No problem, Pakhan.” He licks his lips, wanting his wife.
I know the feeling. But I doubt he’ll be gentle with his.
With nothing more to be said, I turn to Drago. “Let’s give them some privacy.”
We step out into the hallway where Cartel men line the walls, guarding their king until he returns to Miami with his wife.
The door closes behind us, cutting off whatever comes next for Tamara.
Just screaming.
Have fun, Eddie.
“She couldn’t have married you anyway,” Drago mutters as we walk.
“No,” I agree simply. “But she would have tried.”
We get into my SUV, and I look out the window as it pulls away. The lights of the city blur together, my thoughts drifting somewhere else. With a lot less screaming.
Okay, I make my wife scream, too. In a good way.
“Take me home,” I tell the driver.
Because for the first time in five years, I have a wife waiting for me.