Chapter 28 Konstantin
KONSTANTIN
The vibration of my phone against my chest pulls me from my conversation with Sergei about the new wine shipment. I glance at the screen and curse under my breath when I see Viktor's name.
She's locked herself in your office. Won't come out.
My jaw clenches as I read the message twice, my mind immediately racing through possibilities. Something has upset her, and given that she's specifically chosen my office as her sanctuary, I have a sinking feeling I know what it might be.
"Sergei, we'll finish this tomorrow," I say, cutting off the vendor mid-sentence about vintage years and profit margins. "Something's come up."
He nods, understanding the tone that means business is over. I've built my reputation on being a man who handles his priorities, and right now, my wife is at the top of that list.
The drive back to the estate feels longer than usual, my hands gripping the steering wheel as I run through scenarios in my head.
What could have driven her to seek refuge in my office?
The space is sacred to me—it's where I conduct the family's most sensitive business, where I keep things that aren't meant for curious eyes.
Things like the box in my desk drawer.
Blyad.
I press harder on the accelerator, weaving through traffic with the kind of precision that comes from years of high-stakes driving.
If she's found what I think she's found, this conversation is going to be more complicated than I'd hoped.
I've been putting off telling her about Andrei, about the blood oath, about how long I've been watching over her from the shadows.
Every day that passes makes the truth harder to reveal, and now it seems the choice has been taken from me.
The estate comes into view, its imposing silhouette against the winter sky both welcoming and foreboding. I park with more force than necessary, gravel spraying under my tires as I come to a stop. Viktor meets me at the front door, his expression grim.
"How long?" I ask without preamble.
"Two hours. Anya tried to bring her tea, but she won't unlock the door. Just keeps saying she needs time to think."
I nod, already moving toward the stairs. "Make sure we're not disturbed."
"Boss," Viktor calls after me, and I pause. "Whatever she found… she was crying when she went in there."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Ivy doesn't cry easily—I've learned that much about my wife in the short time we've been married.
She's strong, resilient, the kind of woman who faces challenges head-on rather than retreating into tears.
If she's crying, then whatever she's discovered has shaken her to her core.
I take the stairs two at a time, my footsteps echoing in the hallway as I approach my office.
The door is indeed locked, and I can hear nothing from the other side.
For a moment, I consider using my key, but something stops me.
She's chosen to lock herself away, and barging in will only make things worse.
Instead, I knock gently. "Ivy? It's me."
Silence.
"Ivy, I know you're in there. We need to talk."
More silence, then the soft sound of footsteps on carpet.
The lock clicks, and the door opens just wide enough for me to see her face.
Her blue eyes are red-rimmed, her cheeks flushed, and there's something in her expression that makes my chest tighten—a mixture of hurt and confusion that cuts deeper than any blade.
"Come in," she says quietly, stepping back to let me enter.
My office looks exactly as I left it this morning, with one glaring exception.
The wooden box that usually sits locked in my desk drawer is now open on the desktop, its contents scattered across the polished surface.
Photographs, documents, newspaper clippings—all the pieces of a puzzle that Ivy was never supposed to see, at least not like this.
She's holding one particular photograph, and I know without looking which one it is. The picture of Andrei and me at Baratino, taken just months before the night that changed everything. We're both younger, both smiling, both blissfully unaware of the tragedy that would soon tear our worlds apart.
"Explain this," she says, her voice steady despite the tears that threaten to spill over. "Explain why you have a picture of my father in your desk."
I close the door behind me and move slowly into the room, keeping my movements deliberate and non-threatening. Ivy is like a wounded animal right now, ready to bolt or fight depending on how I handle this.
"Your father and I were friends," I begin, choosing my words carefully. "Good friends."
"That's impossible." She shakes her head, blonde hair falling across her face. "My father wasn't… he wasn't part of this world. He sold insurance. He was normal."
The pain in her voice is almost unbearable. She's built her entire understanding of her father on a lie, and now that foundation is crumbling beneath her feet. I want to comfort her, to pull her into my arms and promise that everything will be okay, but I know she won't let me. Not yet.
"He was part of this world, Ivy. He was Bratva."
"No." The word comes out as a whisper, then louder. "No, you're lying. My father was a good man. He wouldn't have been involved with criminals and murderers and—"
"He was a good man," I interrupt, stepping closer. "Being Bratva doesn't make someone evil, moya zhena. Your father was one of the most honorable men I've ever known."
She's staring at the photograph again, her hands trembling slightly. "This doesn't make sense. If he was your friend, if he was part of your world, then why didn't I know? Why did my mother tell me he sold insurance?"
"Because he wanted to protect you." I move to stand behind my desk, my fingers trailing over the scattered documents. "He wanted you to have a normal life, away from the violence and the danger. So he created a cover story, a legitimate business that would explain his income and his absences."
"His absences," she repeats, and I can see the memories clicking into place. "He was gone a lot when I was little. Business trips, Mom always said."
"Family business," I confirm. "He was my father's vor, one of his most trusted men. When my parents were killed, Andrei helped me take control of the family, as is my right. He saved my life."
Ivy looks up at me, her eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and dawning understanding. "He did?"
"He got me out of a bad situation and got hurt in the process. If it hadn’t been for your father, I wouldn’t be here now.
" I pick up another photograph, this one showing Andrei in a hospital bed, his arm in a sling, while I sit beside him with bandages wrapped around my head.
"I made him a promise that night. A blood oath. "
"What kind of promise?"
This is the moment I've been dreading, the revelation that will change everything between us. But there's no going back now, no way to soften the truth.
"I promised that if anything ever happened to him, I would take care of his little girl. I would protect you, no matter what."
The photograph slips from her fingers, fluttering to the floor like a fallen leaf. She stares at me with an expression I can't quite read—shock, betrayal, understanding, all warring for dominance on her beautiful face.
"That's why you married me," she says, her voice barely audible. "Not because you wanted to protect me from Vadim. Because of some promise you made to my father."
"Ivy—"
"That's why you knew exactly where to find me, why you seemed to know so much about my life. You've been watching me." Her voice is getting stronger now, anger beginning to replace the hurt. "How long? How long have you been watching me?"
I could lie. I could tell her it started recently, but she deserves the truth, even if it destroys whatever fragile trust we've built.
"Since you were fifteen."
The words hang in the air between us like a death sentence. Ivy takes a step back, then another, until she's pressed against the bookshelf behind her.
"Fifteen," she repeats. "Since my father died."
"Since your father's funeral," I correct and immediately regret the distinction. Her face goes white.
"You were at his funeral?"
"In the back. You wouldn't have seen me." I remember that day with perfect clarity. The small cemetery, the handful of mourners, Ivy in a black dress that was too big for her teenage frame, clinging to her mother's arm as they lowered Andrei's coffin into the ground.
“So, Frank was right all along when he called you my stalker.”
"Ivy, you need to calm down—"
"Don't tell me to calm down!" She pushes away from the bookshelf, her eyes blazing with fury. "My entire life has been a lie!
"It's complicated—"
"Complicated?" Her voice cracks, and I can see the tears she's fighting back.
"You've been watching me for eleven years.
Eleven years, Konstantin! While I thought I was just some nobody serving drinks at a club, you knew exactly who I was.
You knew about my father, about his connections to your world, and you said nothing. "
She starts pacing again, her hands shaking as she runs them through her blonde hair.
"All those times Viktor would check on me at work, making sure I got to my car safely.
All those coincidences when you'd show up at the same coffee shop I frequented.
The way the owner of Otrava always seemed to look out for me. "
I remain silent, letting her work through it. She needs this, needs to rage against the deception, even if it tears something inside me apart to watch her pain.
"And my mother." Her voice drops to a whisper, and the betrayal in it cuts deeper than any blade. "She knew, didn't she? She knew my father was… Bratva?”
I nod slowly. "She knew. Your mother wanted you to have a normal life. She thought if you knew the truth about your father's world, about the danger that could follow you, it would destroy the innocence she was trying to preserve."
Ivy laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Innocence? I've been living in a fantasy, Konstantin. A carefully constructed lie designed to keep me docile and unaware." She stops pacing and fixes me with a stare that could melt steel. "What else don't I know? What other secrets are you keeping from me?"
"Your father saved my life," I say, keeping my voice steady. "He could have run, could have saved himself, but he stayed to help me. I owed him a debt."
"A debt." She repeats the words like they taste bitter. "So that's all I am to you? Payment on a debt?"
"No." The word comes out sharper than I intended. "It started that way. But it's not that simple anymore."
"Then explain it to me. Make me understand why you thought lying to me for over a decade was acceptable. Make me understand why you married me under false pretenses."
I move closer, but she holds up a hand, stopping me in my tracks.
"You want to know why I didn't tell you?" I ask, my own frustration finally bleeding through. "Because I knew this would happen. I knew you'd look at me exactly the way you're looking at me now—like I'm a monster who's stolen your life."
She wraps her arms around herself, suddenly looking smaller, more vulnerable. "Do you have any idea what it's like to discover that everything you believed about yourself, about your family, about your place in the world, is wrong?"
I do know, actually. I know exactly what it's like to have your world shattered in an instant, to realize that the people you trusted most have been keeping secrets that change everything. But I can't tell her that. Not yet.
She stares at me for a long moment, and I can see her trying to process everything, trying to fit the pieces of her shattered worldview back together in some way that makes sense.
"The night I witnessed the murder," she says slowly. "You were there, weren't you? Not just coincidentally. You were watching."
I nod.
"And when the FBI took me into protection, you already had a plan to take me."
"Yes."
She's spiraling now, her voice rising with each word, and I know that if I don't do something to stop her, she's going to work herself into a full panic attack. So I do the only thing I can think of to stop her words, to silence the pain and anger pouring out of her like blood from a wound.
I kiss her.