Chapter 10 Konstantin
KONSTANTIN
Ivy has to appear in court today. This is where she will be most exposed, but it’s also where she’ll be surrounded by agents. I don’t really expect Vadim to try anything here, but I don’t want to take the chance that he’s stupid enough to try.
The morning wind bites as sharp as knives as I stand across the street from the courthouse, a coffee cooling untouched in my hand. The marble steps gleam under the weak winter sun, agents pacing with clipped precision at every entrance.
More threatening, though, is the swarm of reporters, each one trying to get a close-up view of Ivy. My lips thin as I watch them trying to crowd around the FBI’s vehicles, microphones in one hand while the camera people push their way around, hoping for the best view.
When Ivy finally emerges, flanked by her guards, something tightens in my chest.
She walks quickly, head down, coat pulled close around her small frame.
A slight smile tugs at my mouth. She’s not giving the reporters any chance of a good picture of her.
The agents form a wall around her, their hands hovering near their weapons as their cautious gazes scan the street, buildings, and roofs for threats.
She looks so small and frail surrounded by the Feds. Her skin is too pale, her chin tucked in tight as if the weight of the whole world is pressing down on her slender shoulders.
For one instant, her eyes lift, just slightly, toward the street. My heart stumbles. But her gaze slides past me, never settling, and she ducks back into the SUV.
She disappears inside the courthouse and everything calms down.
The spectators and media, no longer whipped into a frenzy, break off into groups to wait for court to end.
This was supposed to be a quiet hearing, a meeting with the judge and prosecutor to see if there’s enough evidence to go to trial.
Someone leaked the information or else so many reporters wouldn’t be here.
All I can do now is wait.
Later that night, I stand in the shadows across from the safehouse.
It’s ordinary in every way—peeling paint, sagging porch, and a flicker of yellow light in the front room, an attempt to make it look cozy and occupied.
To anyone else, it would disappear into the block of other rundown homes.
To me, it is a beacon. It’s where Ivy is being held.
Snow crunches softly beneath my boots as I shift closer to the trees. The curtains are thin, half-open, and through them, I see her.
Ivy sits at a table with three agents with playing cards scattered between them The men laugh softly, pretending to be at ease. She holds her cards carefully, her lips twitching at something one of them says. For a moment, I see her almost smile.
The sight twists something inside me. I should be relieved—she is alive, she is breathing, she is not broken. But relief is not what I feel. It is hunger. Hunger to take her out of that house, away from men who cannot protect her, away from the eyes of anyone but me.
As if sensing the weight of my stare, her head lifts. Her gaze slides to the window. Our eyes lock.
For one suspended heartbeat, she sees me. I know she does. Her hand stills on the cards, her lips part, and her body tenses.
I step back into shadows, letting the curtain cut me from her view. I only needed to see her, to assure myself she is still whole.
Tomorrow, she’s mine.
The Feds drive their usual dance—lane changes, double-backs, and loops through crowded streets. They think they’re clever, but they’re not. They use the same tactics all the time, but even if they didn’t, my man on the inside told me where they were taking her.
Me and my men set up a roadblock on the street that winds alongside the river, our vehicles stretched across the narrow lanes.
There’s no cameras, hardly any traffic, and no side roads to try and escape.
We wait, impatiently, for the Feds to get here.
Feet shuffle, the sound of shoes scuffing against snow and ice loud in this deserted area.
“Remember,” I call out. “Don’t shoot the Feds. Just keep them occupied while I get the girl.” Dead Feds will bring me trouble I don’t need.
The Feds’ headlights appear in the distance, slicing across the white haze rising off the river. I lift a hand and my men move as one, stepping onto the road and spreading out. Two black SUVs grind to a halt, their tires spitting slush.
They don’t get out of their cars, at least not yet, not while we block the road, our guns drawn.
And not while they’re severely outnumbered.
Even though I’m standing in front, I’ve angled myself so that my face can’t be seen clearly.
No need to advertise the Mikhailov boss is here.
The hoodie I’m wearing also helps to obscure my identity from the law. All my men are similarly disguised.
We move forward as one, a long line of skilled Russian Bratva walking side-by-side, armed to the teeth and ready for battle. I know the sight strikes terror in their souls, and if I weren’t so worried about Ivy, I’d relish their fear.
We surround the cars, our weapons aimed at the windows and the agents inside. Ivy is in the second vehicle, and that’s where I go. Snow crunches under my boots as I circle the SUV. I yank open the back door, keeping my gun trained on the agents inside.
Ivy’s eyes widen when she sees me, but she doesn’t scream as I half expected her to. “No one move, and no one gets hurt,” I growl, keeping my voice low and deep.
“Except for you,” I say, turning my gaze onto Ivy. “You, come with me.”
She hesitates, her hands trembling just slightly in her lap. Not fear—something else. Uncertainty, maybe. She’s taking too long, though. We need to get the hell out of here.
Reaching in with my free hand while keeping my gun trained on the agents, I pull her out of the car. Ivy shrieks in surprise, once, but that’s it. My men stand guard as I rush Ivy to the car, then they back up slowly, guns still aimed at the agents in their vehicles.
We get to my estate about an hour later. To make sure the law didn’t follow us, Maksim punctured their tires, and we took separate ways home, using our own evasive tactics.
Inside, the house glows with Christmas. Staff have been busy these last few hours setting up all the decorations.
Chandeliers spill amber light across polished floors.
Garlands of pine and fir wind up the staircases, laced with red ribbons and tiny glass ornaments.
Silver bells hang from doorframes. Icons flicker in alcoves, candles burning steadily before them.
The air carries the scent of beeswax, pine, and spiced wine.
The choir’s voices drift through hidden speakers, hymns of Orthodox Christmas—solemn, timeless, filling the halls with the weight of faith.
I watch Ivy’s face as she takes it in. Confusion ripples across her fear. What did she expect, a dungeon?
We climb the stairs, her boots echoing against the marble. Her shoulders are stiff, her chin high. We stop before an oak door, and I pull a key out of my pocket to open it.
“This will be your room.”
She whirls on me, her eyes blazing. “My room? You think I’m just going to stay here like a prisoner?”
Her voice shakes, but the fire beneath it burns strong.
“You will stay here,” I answer evenly. “The windows are barred. A guard will stand at your door. You will be safe.”
She lets out a bitter laugh. “Safe? That’s what they told me at the safehouses. Until the bullets started flying.”
I gesture toward the fire already burning in the hearth. “Rest. You will see this is different once you’ve had time to accept your circumstances.”
Her eyes narrow, suspicious. She steps inside without another word. The lock turns softly behind her.
After staring at the closed door for a few minutes, my thoughts warring between giving her some time alone and going in to make her see reason, I finally turn away and go downstairs. Christmas music filters softly through the house as I walk the halls. Outside, snow piles high against the walls.
I pause before the great tree, looking at the ornaments that glimmer softly.
Hand-painted glass, wooden carvings, silver crosses—my mother’s hands once hung them.
The ghost of her voice still echoes here, especially during the holidays.
Christmas was always her favorite and she enjoyed decorating, hanging ornaments, and baking holiday treats.
Now I’ve got Ivy locked up. Do I feel guilty? Maybe a little, but it’s necessary to keep her safe. I look at my watch. Two hours have gone by. Hopefully, that’s enough time for her to calm down because I can’t wait any longer.
I knock on Ivy’s door but don’t wait for an answer, instead inserting my key and opening the door.
Firelight glows against her face where she’s curled in a chair, her knees drawn up to her chest. She slowly raises her head to look at me.
I wince, my heart clenching. There are tear tracks down her cheeks and I hate that I’m responsible for making her cry.
But it can’t be helped. Not if I’m going to keep Vadim, or one of his hitmen, from getting to her.
“You can’t keep me here,” Ivy says quietly.
“Yes,” I reply. “I can.”
Her lips tremble, but she holds my gaze as she straightens out her legs. “The agents will come for me. They need me to testify—”
“The Feds can’t protect you,” I say, stepping further into the room. “Vadim is already free. He’s also put a hit on you. The law can’t keep you safe from that. Not like I can.”
She shakes her head, her laugh bitter. “So you’ll just lock me up instead? Until when?”
I stand before her, the fire crackling at my back. My hands curl into fists. There is only one answer.
“Until you’re my wife.”
Her breath stutters and those gorgeous blue eyes widen. “What?”
“It is the only way,” I say, my voice steady, final. “A Mafia wife is untouchable. Bound to me, under my name, no one—not Vadim, not his men, not even the Feds—will dare take you. You will be safe.”
She stares at me, her shock plain, her lips parted in disbelief.
“You can’t be serious,” she whispers.
“I am.”
The silence stretches, heavy as stone. The fire pops, casting sparks up the chimney.
“We will marry,” I tell her. “On Christmas.”