Chapter 22 Konstantin
KONSTANTIN
Irritation spikes through my blood. Mila’s voice floats through the winter air as if she owns the sky above us. The smile she aims at Ivy is sweet and poisonous. The smile she sends me is calculated.
“Enough,” I say, quiet and flat.
Mila’s chin tips. “Enough what?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know we were talking about our marriage.” The cold bites my cheeks and I swing my finger between me and Ivy. The hedges around the garden bend under a skin of frost as I glare at her. “Mine and Ivy’s. As I’ve already told you.”
When she showed up yesterday, unannounced as usual, I told her I was engaged to be married in two days. She didn’t take it well and had left, anger riding high on her cheeks. I hadn’t expected her to return, yet here she is, trying to cause trouble.
Ivy shifts at my side. The warmth of her shoulder passes through the wool of my coat, and the small move sends a zing of awareness.
She doesn’t speak. She waits to see where this is going.
The way her blue eyes darken and her brows lower when she looks at me is like she’s thinking I’m a spider in the grass she needs to step on.
Just fucking fantastic.
Mila lets out a soft laugh that sounds a bit choked. “You’ve grown dramatic,” she says. “Fine. Then clear the air. Are you marrying me or not?”
Ivy inhales sharply. Shock widens her eyes. Anger follows fast, hot enough that she takes a single half step away from me. The movement hits like a punch to my gut.
I keep my gaze on Mila. “We were never engaged,” I say. “Not once. Not in private. Not in public. Not in writing. Not at all.”
Her lips part. Color rushes into her cheeks. “My father—”
“Spoke for himself,” I finish. “Not for me.”
“You led me to believe—”
“No.” I interrupt before she can continue down that path. “I did not.”
Mila’s confusion hardens. “Then say it clearly.”
“In two days, on Christmas Day, I’ll marry Ivy.” I do not look away from her when I say it. “That’s final.”
Silence presses down on the three of us. The fountain behind the hedge makes a slow winter drip, the only sound for the moment.
Mila laughs, one sharp burst that startles a sparrow from the hedge. She swings her gaze to Ivy, her eyes glittering. “You will regret saying yes to this man. He treats his promises like ornaments. Pretty in the light, fragile and breakable in his hands.”
Ivy’s lips thin, but she says nothing. She doesn’t look at me either.
Mila steps closer to me. “My father won’t accept this,” she says. “He has plans. He will not be… embarrassed.” She spits out the last word as if it tastes like dog shit. “He will have something to say about your choice, Konstantin. And you’ll be sorry if you go through with this.”
“We’ll see.” There’s no hint of concern in my voice. I know Ivan Bocharov, Mila’s father, well enough to know he’s not going to start a war over this. He may love his daughter and want to combine our families, but he won’t risk the entire Bocharov family because I choose to marry someone else.
“My father will not bless this,” Mila continues in the same vein, determined to try and scare me into changing my mind.
She must not know me as well as she thinks if she thinks fear tactics will work on me.
“If you humiliate me, he will make sure you feel it. And if you think he’s afraid of you, you’ve forgotten who built your first alliances. ”
Mila’s eyes flick to Ivy one last time, sharp as flint striking steel. “Enjoy your Christmas.” Her tone doesn’t exactly gush best wishes.
She turns and walks away, her heels crunching against the snow and ice. Her red hair disappears behind the hedges, and the air becomes less charged.
Until I look at Ivy.
“What was that?” she asks. “All of it. Starting with why she could walk in here and act like this was her house.”
“She believes it should be,” I say.
“Because of her father.” Ivy’s voice is steady. “That much was obvious.”
I lead her to the bench under the bare arbor.
The iron is cold through the fabric of my pants.
She stares at me for a hard minute then reluctantly sits down, shivering slightly when the coldness of the bench seeps in through her sweater dress.
I keep my hands on my knees, afraid they’ll have a mind of their own and reach out to touch her, to wrap her in my arms and steal the cold from her body and warm it with mine.
“Mila’s father has pressed for a match for years,” I say. “He wants to unite our families and claims the union would make us untouchable.”
“And you’ve been telling him… what?” Her brows lift. “Maybe? We’ll see? Ask me next week?”
“No.” The word comes out like stone. “I’ve never agreed. I told him I wasn’t ready for marriage, and even if I were, I wasn’t interested in his daughter.”
“So she ‘just assumed’.” Ivy uses Mila’s words, crinkles appearing at her nose as if she finds the words distasteful. “She assumed you belonged to her. Because that’s what she was promised.”
“She was promised nothing,” I say. “That is the truth.” I sigh before continuing. “He has leverage in certain corners. He prefers to pretend that leverage extends to my life.”
“And does it?” Her gaze doesn’t waver. “Be honest.”
“Only if I allow it. Which I don’t. And never have.”
Ivy looks away toward the hedges. The winter light draws a pale gold rim around her profile.
I want to put my hand over hers. I want to tell her that two days from now, the priest will tie an embroidered cloth over our hands, and old women will press bread and salt into our palms, and every vow I make will be true. But I say nothing.
She turns back. “You should have told me about her earlier.”
“I saw no reason to. I didn’t expect Mila to come by, and we were never engaged. We never even dated.”
She looks away again. A snow flurry drifts through the light like ash.
Footsteps sound on the path. Heavy, sure. Viktor’s shape appears between the hedges, his long wool coat buttoned to his throat. His breath comes out in white puffs in the cold air. He lifts a hand in greeting and stops two paces away. For once, he isn’t holding a wooden carving in his hands.
He looks at Ivy then at me. “Konstantin,” he says evenly, “we should talk.”
Ivy glances from him to me, reading the quiet tension that sits between us. She gathers herself and stands. “I’ll let you talk,” she says. “But I’m not done with you.”
“No,” I say. “You aren’t.”
Her eyes slide to my mouth and back to my eyes before she turns away.
She walks toward the house with quick, purposeful steps, her hands tucked deeply into her coat pockets.
A little gust of wind picks up her blonde strands and swirls them around her head before letting them settle on her shoulders again.
The ache to follow her is a living thing that I have to consciously fight against.
Viktor waits until she disappears, then tips his head toward the side door of the house. “Inside,” he says. “Too many ears in the garden.”
We cross the corridor to my study. The fire has burned down to a red bed of coals. The room smells of leather, paper, and the faint bite of winter air that we’ve brought in with us. I close the door. Viktor stays standing, his big hands lightly clenched at his sides.
“Okay, out with it,” I say.
“Mila’s father.” He pauses. “He let it slip he knows about Ivy’s father. Not everything, but enough to probe. He said you pay old debts. He meant the blood oath.”
Irritation settles over me like wet wool. “Who else heard him?”
“Only me,” Viktor says. “He wanted the message hand-delivered.”
“He’s going to try and blackmail me with it,” I say, disgust pouring through my voice.
Viktor nods. “He’ll use it as leverage to try and force you to marry Mila.”
I laugh. “Like that will work. Damn, Mila must have called her dad the second she left me and Ivy in the garden for Ivan to already be trying to come up with something.”
I pause for a moment and scrub my jaw. “We need to tighten down the house just in case Ivan gets a wild hair up his ass and decides to do something stupid.”
Viktor nods. “On it.”
He reaches for the door, then stops with his hand on the latch. “One more thing,” Viktor says without turning. “About Baratino.”
He’s switched the subject to my restaurant which means that was his true purpose for seeking me out. “What about it?”
“I’ve been at this since before sunrise—bank managers, a clerk who files the shells, a night cleaner with a long memory and a short temper.
Looking for who has been cooking your books and stealing from the restaurant.
” He looks over his shoulder now, meets my eyes.
“I have a name in mind. The pulls happen on days only a handful could touch the deposits. I won’t say who I suspect yet, but if I’m right, it’s someone we both know and trust.”