6. Chapter 6
6
Bella
“ S o, this is she.”
The voice isn’t deep or steady. It’s the kind that scrapes against your spine—thin, slick, almost amused.
I’ve seen this scene before. Not in real life—but in every mafia movie ever made.
A cold hand clasps over mine, squeezing just a little too long. I look up into eyes the exact shade of ice—blue, sharp, and completely void of warmth.
He’s tall. Lean. Looks like he stepped out of a GQ spread for “men who ruin lives and don’t call the next day.” His mouth curves into something that might pass for a smile if it didn’t feel like a threat.
“She’s lovely,” he says like he’s enjoying this a little too much. “Not your usual type, brother .”
Brother?
I blink. Wait— what?
I try to pull my hand away, but he doesn’t let go.
Not right away.
He holds it just long enough to make a point, thumb brushing my knuckles like we’re on some kind of date. That smug, smug smirk tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing—and that he likes it.
And then—Konstantin moves.
No words. No warning.
Just his hand leaving my back and clamping down on the stranger’s wrist like a vice. Brutal, precise, and quiet in a way that somehow feels louder than shouting.
The man jerks slightly, more out of surprise than pain. Or maybe both. His smile thins.
“Still so dramatic,” he mutters, flexing his wrist once Konstantin lets go. “You always did have that flair for theatrics.”
Konstantin’s stare doesn’t waver.
His voice is steel. “Get your hands off my wife, Filipp.”
Oh. Wife. Right. That’s me.
Konstantin’s hand returns to my waist, but this time, it’s not gentle. His fingers tighten, possessive, like he’s anchoring me to him. Like he wants everyone in this room to know exactly who I belong to.
My breath catches—not from fear, but from the way my body reacts before my brain can catch up.
The other man—Filipp—says something in Russian, low and mocking.
But I don’t hear the rest of it.
Because my brain is currently short-circuiting.
That hand.
That grip.
That move.
Holy hell.
Why is the hottest thing he’s ever done also low-key terrifying?
My skin is still tingling where Filipp touched me, but now it’s for a whole different reason.
His icy blue eyes flick to me again—and Konstantin steps between us, smooth and deliberate, cutting off Filipp’s line of sight like he’s slamming a door. His back blocks out everything else.
I lean just enough to peek around him. Filipp’s still standing there, all lazy smirk and bad intentions.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Filipp?”
“Relax. I came to congratulate the happy couple. Isn’t that what family’s for?”
“You’re not family,” Konstantin snaps. “You’re a leech.”
“Don’t be cruel,” Filipp says lightly, flicking his gaze back to me like I’m a drink he’s not allowed to touch. “You didn’t tell her about me?”
“Because I don’t waste breath on parasites.”
The smile falters. Brief. Blink, and you’d miss it.
Then it returns sharper. Like a knife hidden in a bouquet.
“Well, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve always been good at hiding things.” His gaze drops to my neckline, lingers in a way that makes me want to stab him with my heel. “But this? A wife? Who knew you had it in you after Irina…?”
Konstantin moves. It’s not much—just a step—but it shifts the air, the temperature, the mood. Everything tilts.
His voice drops to lethal calm. “Touch her again, and I’ll break every bone in your hand. Then I’ll decide whether to stop there.”
Filipp freezes.
And for a moment—just a moment—the mask slips.
The grin goes tight, brittle. Behind it, something ugly brews. Something resentful and cracked.
His eyes land on me again—one final, unsettling flick of possession—and I swear my skin shrinks in protest.
Then: a nod. Mocking. Composed.
He steps back, the grin returning, but it’s thinner now. Hollow.
Before I can blink, Konstantin’s men close in.
Two of them. Silent. Suited. Moving with that Bratva efficiency that makes your spine lock up. No raised voices. No dramatic scene. Just two hands on Filipp’s arms, firm enough to make a point.
He doesn’t fight.
But his smile twists—uglier now. Tight and forced, like it’s been stapled to his face.
“Enjoy it while it lasts,” he says, gaze landing on me. “She’ll learn, eventually.”
Konstantin steps forward slightly, just enough to cast a shadow over him. And then Filipp’s gone, whisked away.
“What just happened? That’s your brother?” My voice is low, tight, aimed toward the center of his suit jacket.
He doesn’t look back. “My stepbrother.”
Of course. Of course there’s a stepbrother. There’s always a stepbrother in these kinds of fucked-up dynasties.
His hand moves again—this time not to possess but to hold. He laces his fingers into mine.
And suddenly, I’m just standing there, hand in his, surrounded by Russian billionaires and glass-eyed heiresses, blinking like a confused Barbie at a Bratva banquet.
One of his men returns, tall and unbothered, whispering something in Russian into Konstantin’s ear.
Konstantin’s face doesn’t change. But I feel the tension in the hand wrapped around mine. Just a twitch, a shift. He nods once.
I, meanwhile, am battling a full-blown foot cramp and the overwhelming urge to scream.
Nope. Not now, Satan.
I try to hold it in. I do. But my left foot does this slow, traitorous spasm inside my heel, and my entire leg seizes up like it’s auditioning for a high school production of “Pain: The Musical.”
I let out a squeaky breath through my nose. It’s either that or yelp like a wounded animal.
“You’re limping,” he says.
“I am not limping.”
He levels me with a look that says he knows I’m lying. A very annoying look. A smug, hot look that makes me want to slap him and kiss him at the same time.
“I said come.” His hand slides around my waist.. I don’t argue—because walking anywhere else sounds like actual death.
He leads me past the guests, past the champagne and marble, through a hallway of golden sconces and muted chaos. Then—he opens a door. Dressing room. Quiet. Empty.
He doesn’t ask. He guides. Lowers me onto a velvet chaise like he owns the air in this room and the muscles in my legs.
“I’m fine—” I try.
“No, you’re not.”
I glare at him. “You’re not my—”
“I’m your husband,” he cuts in, crouching in front of me. “And you’re wearing shoes designed by someone who clearly hates women.”
I blink. “Okay. That’s… weirdly progressive of you.”
He ignores me. Unclasps my heel like he’s unwrapping a gift. The other hand slides up my calf again—slower this time. He peels the second shoe off with surgeon-like precision and exposes the crime scene that is my foot: one giant blister, angry and pink.
He makes a low sound in his throat. Something between disapproval and murder.
“Don’t,” I say, flinching. “Don’t look at it like that. It’s not a war wound.”
“It’s mine now,” he says simply. “All of you is.”
And then—he starts rubbing.
Not a polite massage. No. This is calculated affection. His thumb presses in circles; his fingers work with a kind of reverence that turns my brain to pudding.
The pressure hits this exact nerve, and I nearly moan.
Oh, my God. Oh, my God. I am going to die in this goddamn velvet chair because my mafia husband is giving me a foot rub that feels like foreplay.
I bite my lip so hard it might bleed.
Don’t. Do. Anything. Weird.
Don’t accidentally orgasm on a chaise lounge.
There are probably cameras.
“Relax,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving my face. “And stop curling your toes.”
I make a noise that is definitely not a moan but also definitely not normal.
“I’m not curling them,” I lie, sounding unhinged. “They’re… recoiling. In horror.”
He doesn’t say a word. Just slides his fingers between my toes.
Fingers. Between. My. Actual. Toes.
Oh, sweet baby Jesus, why?
The way his thumb strokes the arch of my foot like he knows exactly what he’s doing? Not helpful.
Because now I’m picturing other things.
Unsafe things. Horizontal things. That mouth doing not-foot-related activities.
My brain is rapidly exiting the building. So is my dignity. One toe at a time.
I need to focus. I need to say something. Anything.
“Wh–what’s the plan now?” I blurt, panic-pivoting into small talk like my life depends on it. “Do we just, I don’t know… stand in more rooms? Smile until our faces fall off? Fake a cake-cutting with a golden knife while everyone pretends they don’t know you’ve probably stabbed someone with it?”
His brow lifts. “The reception,” he says dryly. “Dinner. Speeches. Dancing. You pretending to be civil.”
“God,” I mutter. “I hope there’s wine.”
“There’s vodka.”
“Of course there’s vodka.”
His hands haven’t left my feet. In fact, now they’re moving up again. His palms drag along my calves, slow and deliberate, like I’m made of silk, and he’s got all the time in the world to unravel me.
I grab onto the first thing I can to avoid combusting.
“Okay—so reception, fine. Great. I can do that. And then what?” I add, trying and failing to sound casual.
His eyes flick up, sharp and amused. “After that?”
He shifts closer again—bracketing me with his arms, leaning in until the scent of him is all I can breathe. Rich. Dark. A little bit of sin and a whole lot of control.
His voice is a whisper against my ear. Velvet and steel.
“Then comes our first night together.”
My breath hitches.
“And I expect,” he says slowly, “a repeat performance of what you did on my bed the night you broke into my house.”
My body turns to stone. Then lava. Then ash.
Because I know exactly what he’s talking about.
The joint. The silk sheets. The fucking portrait. The shame. The heat. The way I imagined him—before I even knew him.