Page 32 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

“Your favorite,” she says.

Favorite. The word feels foreign. I don’t have any favorites. Not really. I have no memory of anything being a favorite. After the fall, my life has been delivered in measured and controlled doses of what others thought was best for me.

But I had nineteen years before that. Nineteen years of something.

What if— What if they’re telling the truth? Why else would they go through all this?

I stare down at the tray, my hands trembling as I peel back the foil. Macaroni and cheese. My mouth waters before I can stop it. I pick up the fork, hesitating for only a second before scooping out a bite and bringing it to my lips. The flavor explodes across my tongue. Warm. Creamy.

“Ouch,” I gasp suddenly, nearly dropping the bowl.

Pain sparks along my finger. I stare down at it and see a small scar I never noticed before. It runs along the side. It’s faint but unmistakable.

Another memory hits me. A grater. A block of cheese. Then a cut on my finger. My breath catches, and it’s gone.

What is happening to me?

I look down at the bowl again, suspicion clouding my thoughts. Is this food drugged? Is this some kind of trick? But my body doesn’t care. I keep eating, faster now, chasing the feeling, searching for another memory sitting just out of reach. Until the food is gone. Until the bowl is empty.

I look up.

The guard is still there, watching me. “Yes, Mrs. Volkov?” he asks.

The name tightens my chest. I don’t understand it, but it feels warm to be called that. Or it could be the food?

I set the bowl back on the tray, sliding it forward with hands that still tremble. “Can I have more?”

Chapter 9

Kirill

Islam the door to my private office in the south residence wing harder than necessary. The glass windows rattle in their frames. I can’t sit. I just stand there, my pulse throbbing.

I can control anything and anyone. Sandrine’s disappearance was a blow that I have pretended to recover from.

I drag in a breath that does nothing to settle the storm building in my heart. The office looks exactly as I left it. The dark wood, the glass doors of the credenza, and all the steel weapons in my open gun case closet speak to who I am. Who I’d become in the last five years.

Now it feels off. Sandrine is finally back, but I don’t feel better. I feel worse.

Drago knocks on the door a moment later and strides inside with my sister, who he lets walk in first. My enforcer is usually all coiled violence, while Ksenia is ruthless with a softer conscience.

They both look at me, waiting for me to say something. These two are going to double-team me to forgive Sandrine. Make peace. Move on. For the sake of the brotherhood.

“Why is she saying she doesn’t remember me?” I don’t bother easing into it.

Or pretend to be strong about this.

Ksenia swallows hard, a concerned look on her face. “She didn’t remember me either.”

The words settle between us. Another tragedy we’re both living through. Like when our mother killed herself.

“But the timing is a blessing,” Ksenia adds, getting herself together after being shaken, talking to Sandrine. “Your queen is home. You can take your place when Papa leaves us.”

Drago exhales slowly. We have more people to kill so I can stand as the only pakhan and lead the American Bratva. And I just threw one big complication at us.

“Sandrine mentioned Lakeshore,” I say, still pacing, unable to stay still. The energy in my body has nowhere to go. “She asked if we were bringing her back to Lakeshore?”

That name even tastes wrong in my mouth, like it should sicken me. She kept saying it over and over.