13. Chapter 13
13
Konstantin
T he whole fucking day goes by, and I do exactly what I told myself I wouldn’t.
I think about her.
Isabella fucking Marquez . My wife.
I tell myself it’s just strategy. Logistics. A calculated union to secure the title, eliminate Filipp, tie up the loose ends. She’s the pawn I need to play the final move.
And yet… I think about the shape of her mouth when she argues. The way her eyes don’t blink when she’s scared, like she’s daring fear to try her. The fact that she didn’t flinch when I laid the truth bare between us.
She hasn’t even stepped foot in this house, and already, I’m imagining her barefoot in my kitchen like she fucking owns the place.
Pathetic.
I ditch my jacket on the foyer chair, the motion sensor lights spilling warm gold across the marble floors. The house yawns open around me—vaulted ceilings, silent halls, panoramic windows that wrap the cliffside like a fortress draped in glass.
It’s not a home. It’s a perimeter.
But it’s mine.
Every room here was custom-built. From the sunken living room with charcoal linen sofas and a fireplace carved from volcanic stone, to the glass wall that folds open to the infinity pool—the one that spills out like a dark mirror into the trees and vanishes into Big Sur’s ocean fog.
Ten acres of isolation. And still, not enough space to outrun her name in my head.
I strip down in the locker alcove just off the kitchen and head underground. The hallway changes from sleek stone to raw concrete, the air colder, heavier. I punch in the code.
The dungeon welcomes me.
It’s not a gym. It’s war prep.
A full octagon cage sits under the industrial lights, next to a weapons wall holding knives, blunt-force weapons, and enough Russian steel to stage a prison riot. The punching bags are leather. One’s torn open from last week. Blood—mine and others—stains the rubber mats beneath the weight racks.
I don’t listen to music here. Only breath. Impact. Grit grinding against bone.
Timur’s already in the cage, wrapping his wrists in black tape. He’s got an old bruise blooming under his jaw—probably from sparring with one of the recruits. Timur likes to let them think they have a shot before breaking their ribs.
“Ready to bleed?” he calls out, grinning.
“Only if you cry after,” I answer.
Arseny’s pacing near the back wall, tablet in hand, eyes scanning the flash drive I stole from Filipp’s little shell game. He doesn’t lift his head.
“What have you found?” I ask Arseny.
“Your brother’s getting sloppy. The flash drive was encrypted, but not well enough. Two laundromats. Three cash-only nightclubs. A shell company out of Paraguay. All feeding into Belov South.”
“Half-brother,” I correct automatically, the distinction important. We share a father but nothing else—certainly not loyalty. “He’s just stupid. And he thinks he has Tatiana’s protection.” I scoff at the thought.
“He’s definitely not subtle,” Arseny mutters, scrolling through the mess of financials on his tablet. He pauses, eyes narrowing. “These transfers are so sloppy they’re practically waving red flags. Either he thinks we’re idiots, or he’s trying to bait us into making a move.”
His jaw ticks once. That’s Arseny’s version of rage. If he starts actually speaking in full sentences, someone’s about to die.
I set the Sig back on its rack and move toward the steel cage in the center of The Dungeon.
“He thinks subtlety is for cowards,” I say, stepping into the cage with Timur. “He forgot what happens when the quiet men stop speaking.”
Timur tosses me a blade. We don’t wear padding. We don’t fake anything here.
Steel kisses steel as we circle each other. He feints right; I duck, we clash. Elbows, knees, pressure points. A knee to my thigh. A blade grazing my rib. I twist and slam him into the wall, forearm to his neck.
“You holding back?” I ask.
He grins, teeth bloodstained. “You think this is me being gentle ?”
I knock him to the mat and offer a hand.
As he takes it, Arseny finally speaks up. “What do you want done first? Strip clubs or laundromats?”
“Strip clubs,” I say. “Send someone through the books. If there’s a whiff of trafficking, burn it down.”
“And the guy from the warehouse?”
“Interrogate him tonight. I want names, drop sites, payments. If he blinks wrong, make it hurt.”
Timur cracks his knuckles like he’s already picturing the scream.
We spar until the air smells like salt and blood and something ancient. Until every blow lands cleaner. Meaner. Like we’re sharpening the edge of a war we haven’t declared yet.
An hour later, the heat’s bled from my muscles, and the white noise in my head is finally quiet.
I towel off and head back upstairs, muscles burning, ribs singing, but head finally clearing.
The house is calm—but not in the usual, hollow way.
It feels… paused. Like it knows something is about to change.
Sunlight’s bleeding through the glass, casting long shadows over the marble. Outside, the infinity pool glows like liquid obsidian, the edge blurring into trees and mist that always roll in early this time of year.
She’ll be here soon.
The first night I’ll have a wife under this roof again.
The thought tastes unfamiliar.
Not because I miss the last one—I don’t. She left ashes in her place and called it freedom.
This? This is something else. A move I made. A move that matters.
I glance at the terrace doors.
Some part of me expects to see her standing there already—dressed like she doesn’t care she’s being watched, hands on her hips, ready to argue about dinner, real estate, or the existence of my soul.
Instead, there’s only the pool. Still. Waiting.
Blayd . She hasn’t stepped foot in this house.
And I swear I hear her laughing from the balcony.
I shake it off. I’m not the type to daydream.
I’m the type who waits. Watches. Plans.
I step into the biometric elevator, thumb against the scanner. The doors open without a sound, taking me up to the only part of the house that ever truly feels like mine.
The Private Wing.
Top floor. Six thousand square feet of silence, steel, and shadow. Accessible only in two ways—my thumbprint or a stairwell so well-hidden it may as well not exist. Less than five people even know it’s here.
The doors open, and I walk barefoot onto the dark hardwood floors. The hallway is moody, long, lined with abstract Russian oil paintings and blackout windows that turn daylight into something untrustworthy. You can hear your own heartbeat up here, especially if you’re walking it alone at night.
Which I usually am.
I cross toward my room, unhurried. Shirt slung over my shoulder, muscles still pulsing with the after-burn of steel and violence. This is the hour I normally spend in silence, staring into the fire or out toward the sea. It’s a routine that keeps my demons organized.
But tonight?
The door to my bedroom is open.
I stop walking.
I don’t leave it open. Ever.
I step forward, quiet, not tense—just aware.
And then—
She’s there.
In my room .
Standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, facing the ocean like she’s watching for something only she can see.
She’s barefoot. Wearing one of the ivory robes I had placed in her closet. Hair damp. A single drop of water trails down her neck before disappearing into the collar.
Her back is to me.
And I just—stop.
Because I don’t know how she got past security. I don’t know which maid sent her up. I don’t know why she’s here or what she’s doing or how the hell she looks so goddamn—
She turns.
Her eyes find mine.
“Oh,” she says, startled—but not apologetic. “This isn’t my room, is it?”
My mouth opens. Shuts. For once, my mind goes completely blank .
“You— How the hell did you get in here?”
She glances behind her. “Anya told me third door on the left. Unless she meant her left. In which case, oops.”
I stare at her. “Who?”
She blinks. “Anya. One of the housemaids? Blonde, super smiley, smells like citrus floor cleaner and emotional support?”
I say nothing.
Because I didn’t hire an Anya.
Which means someone else did. Without telling me.
Bella must register the shift in my expression because she hesitates.
“Okay,” she says slowly, “based on the way you just turned into a statue, I’m guessing she’s… new?”
“She doesn’t exist in my system,” I say flatly.
“Oh,” Bella says again. “Right. I… may have just triggered a background check, didn’t I?”
“She’ll be lucky if it stops there.”
“Wow. I just wanted to find the room with the best view.”
“You found the one with the worst idea.”
She shrugs, biting back a grin. “Well. Not worst. You do have great lighting. Very murder cave-chic. ”
I shut the door behind me.
“So, let me get this straight,” I say. “You trespass into the one room in this entire house that no one touches because a maid I didn’t hire told you to?”
Bella lifts her chin. “To be fair, I only believed her because she offered me lavender tea and seemed emotionally stable.”
“She fed you lavender tea and sent you to my bedroom.”
“I said she was emotionally stable, not smart.”
I step closer until she has to tilt her head slightly to keep eye contact.
“You have a habit,” I murmur, “of crossing lines that shouldn’t be crossed.”
She folds her arms. “And you have a habit of thinking every room is a kingdom that needs your permission to breathe in.”
I smirk. “This one is.”
“Oh, I noticed,” she mutters. “It has a built-in gun closet and all the ambient warmth of a Bond villain’s funeral.”
She shifts slightly, chin tilted, ready to throw another sarcastic grenade— But then her bathrobe slips.
Just slightly.
Just enough to slide down one bare shoulder, revealing damp skin still kissed by steam, a freckle I hadn’t seen before, and the curve of her collarbone like a fucking invitation.
Her hair is still wet. Loose. Dripping.
And for one brutal second, I forget every reason I told myself this wasn’t that kind of marriage.
Because she looks too comfortable in this room. Too bare. Too goddamn beautiful.
The robe slides lower.
I move before I can stop myself—reaching out and grabbing the soft fabric near her shoulder, pulling it gently but firmly back into place. My fingers brush her skin as I adjust it. She stills. Breath held. Lips parted just enough to wreck me.
Her eyes flicker up.
But she’s not looking at my face.
She’s looking at me .
My chest. My stomach. The towel slung dangerously low around my hips.
She catches herself too late.
Color rushes to her cheeks like a sunburn.
“Oh,” she whispers, blinking quickly. “You’re—um… Naked .” She licks her lips, then immediately looks like she wants to take it back. Or punch me.
I grin. It’s involuntary.
She clears her throat, turning slightly, like the window might offer salvation.
And then— The creak of a door.
“Why are you in Papa’s room?”
Alya steps just inside the doorway, already dressed for dinner—navy sweater, crisp blouse, those little patent shoes scuffed just enough to prove she’s been running, but not enough to get scolded for it.
She looks at me.
Then at Bella.
Then back again.
“You’re not dressed,” she says. “Dinner’s in fifteen minutes.”
Bella shifts beside me, tugging the robe tighter, like she wants to disappear into the floor.
Alya doesn’t blink. Doesn’t smile.
She turns her gaze to Bella, tilts her head, and asks—calmly: “Did you get lost?”
Bella’s lips part. No sound.
Alya waits exactly two seconds. Then adds—
“I can show you where your room is. It’s not this one.”