15. Chapter 15
15
Bella
I open the door and immediately want to shut it again.
Konstantin Belov stands on the other side like some kind of six-foot-four vengeance fantasy dressed in sin and soft cotton. His hair is still damp, pushed back in that careless way that screams: “I don’t need effort, I am the effort.” The tailored black joggers shouldn’t look that good on anyone outside a GQ editorial, and the plain white T-shirt is molded to his chest like it has ideas about belonging there permanently. I can’t help but glare at the sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms mapped with tattoos I want to trace with my—
Stop it, Bella.
He looks… casual. But casual in a way that suggests he could still murder someone and not spill a drop of blood on the brushed cotton.
I blink. My brain stalls.
Reboots.
Nope. Still hot.
I look up at him. He’s exactly a head taller than I am—maybe more—and somehow, from this close, he looks younger. Less ice king, more disheveled demigod. More approachable.
Which is a damn lie because the expression he’s wearing could freeze hell.
His jaw is set, eyes unreadable, but that vein in his neck— Yeah. That one’s doing some talking.
“Your conversation with my daughter was interesting,” he says without preamble, voice quiet enough that I have to lean slightly forward to catch it.
I match his stance, arms crossed. “Were you eavesdropping, or does this place come with built-in wiretaps?”
“Both.” He doesn’t even blink. “This is my house. Everything that happens here, I know about.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It’s efficient.”
We stand there, locked in some absurd standoff, neither moving. I can smell his cologne from here—something expensive and woody that makes me think of forest floors and whiskey.
“Are you going to lecture me about how I spoke to your daughter?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe. “Or how I handled your terrified maid?”
Something flickers across his face—interest, maybe. Or annoyance. With him, they look remarkably similar.
“Walk with me,” he says instead of answering.
Not a request. Not quite a command, either. Something in between that makes my spine straighten despite myself.
“Where to? The dungeon? The interrogation room? The place where you dispose of wives who talk back?”
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile, but sharper. “Dinner. Unless you’d prefer to starve dramatically to make a point.”
My stomach growls in response, betraying me completely.
“Fine,” I say, stepping into the hallway. “Lead the way, Your Bratva-ness.”
He doesn’t respond to the jab; just turns and starts walking. I fall into step beside him, heels clicking against the hardwood in a rhythm that feels like a countdown.
We pass through a corridor lined with art that I’d need a doctorate to understand—all harsh angles and Russian inscriptions and the kind of darkness that costs more than most people’s mortgages.
“You undermined my authority,” he says finally, his voice so casual he might as well be commenting on the weather.
“By what? Showing basic human decency to your staff?”
“By suggesting that mistakes are acceptable in this house.”
I stop walking. He takes two more steps before turning to face me, eyebrow arched like he’s amused by my defiance.
“Let me get this straight,” I say, keeping my voice level. “You’re upset because I told your daughter not to terrorize the help?”
“I’m stating a fact. In my world, mistakes cost lives.”
“We were discussing a bedroom mix-up, not a hit job.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Every standard matters. Every detail. That’s how we survive.”
“ We ?” I repeat. “Or just you?”
Something shifts in his expression then—a tightening around the eyes, a hardness that wasn’t there before. I’ve hit a nerve.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Maybe not,” I concede. “But I know what trauma looks like when it’s wearing patent leather shoes and managing everyone’s time like a tiny dictator.”
He steps closer, suddenly enough that I have to force myself not to back away. I can feel the heat radiating from him, see the faint scar that traces along his jawline.
“Be careful, Isabella.”
“Of what? Caring about your daughter’s emotional well-being?”
“Of assuming you understand anything about how she was raised.”
I meet his gaze steadily. “I understand more than you think. I was her once.”
Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, curiosity, I can’t tell. But he doesn’t back down.
“And who raised you?” he asks, his voice deceptively soft. “What made you so certain you know what’s best for my child?”
The question catches me off guard. It’s too personal, too close to old wounds I’ve bandaged with sarcasm and ambition.
I swallow, the words catching in my throat. For a moment, I consider brushing it off, deflecting with a joke or a shrug. But the look in his eyes holds me there, frozen in place.
“After my parents died,” I say finally, my voice steadier than I feel, “my aunt and uncle took us in. People who thought fear was the same as respect. People who thought control was love.”
He studies me for a long moment, like he’s reading something written in invisible ink across my face. Then, without warning, he reaches out and presses a panel in the wall.
A hidden door slides open, revealing a staircase I wouldn’t have noticed otherwise.
“This way,” he says. “It’s faster.”
I stare at the passageway. “You have secret tunnels in your house? Of course you do.”
“Not tunnels. Just efficient routes.”
“For what? Midnight escapes? Emergency assassinations?”
His mouth quirks. “Monday dinner.”
I follow him down the staircase, which spirals elegantly through what must be the center of the house. The walls are lined with more art—this collection softer somehow, landscapes and seascapes that seem at odds with the man leading me through them.
“My father collected these,” he says, noticing my gaze lingering on a particularly beautiful painting of the Russian coastline. “Before everything went to shit.”
It’s the first personal detail he’s offered without being interrogated, and I don’t know what to do with it.
“It’s beautiful,” I say simply.
“It’s a reminder.”
“Of what?”
“That beauty doesn’t last.” He continues down the stairs without looking back to see if I follow.
We emerge into a kitchen that looks like it was designed by someone who worships both food and power in equal measure. Everything gleams—black marble, brushed gold fixtures, massive appliances. Wide windows frame a view of the pool stretching toward the ocean like a mirror to another world.
“This is… excessive,” I breathe, unable to help myself.
“It’s functional.”
“For what? Feeding an army?”
“Sometimes.” He moves toward the massive island, resting his hand on the sleek surface. “When necessary.”
Alya is already seated at the island, her tablet propped up beside her, eyes focused on what looks like math problems. She doesn’t look up when we enter, but I can tell from the slight stiffening of her shoulders that she knows we’re here.
“Papa,” she says, finally glancing up. Her eyes move to me, then back to him. “Do we have to sit together?”
“Yes,” Konstantin answers, his voice gentler than I’ve heard it before. “You know she’s staying, myshka .”
Alya considers this information like she’s calculating risk factors. “Will she be here for breakfast, too?”
“Yes.”
“And dinner tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
She taps her pencil against the tablet. “For how long?”
Konstantin and I exchange a glance. It’s the first time we’ve looked at each other without hostility since I arrived, and something electric passes between us.
“For now,” he says finally, “she stays.”
Alya nods once, decision made. “Then she should know about Mondays.”
“What’s special about Mondays?” I ask, genuinely curious.
Alya looks at me like I’ve asked what’s special about oxygen. “Monday is pizza night. Papa makes it himself. No chefs allowed.”
I blink, trying to reconcile the image of the dangerous man beside me—the one with violence etched into his skin and power wrapped around him like armor—with someone who makes homemade pizza for his daughter.
“You cook?” I ask, unable to keep the disbelief from my voice.
Konstantin’s mouth curves into something dangerously close to a real smile.
“I contain multitudes.”
“And tomato sauce, apparently,” I say.
This time, the sound that escapes him might actually be a laugh—short and rusty, like it’s been locked away too long.
“Sit,” he says, nodding toward the stool beside Alya. “Watch. Learn.”
As I slide onto the stool, I catch Alya studying me again, her small face serious. But this time, there’s something else there, too. Not warmth, exactly. But not pure hostility, either.
“I hope you like mushrooms,” she says. “Papa puts them on everything.”
“I do,” I answer honestly. “But I draw the line at pineapple.”
Alya’s eyes widen fractionally, and she leans forward. “Me too! Papa says fruit doesn’t belong on pizza.”
“Smart man.”
“The smartest,” she agrees with absolute conviction.
The sound of measured footsteps interrupts our unexpected moment of solidarity. I turn to see two boys enter the kitchen—12-year-old twins with Konstantin’s sandy blond hair but strikingly different demeanors.
I recognize them from the wedding, of course—they stood stoically alongside their father during the ceremony, dressed in identical suits but wearing completely different expressions. We never actually spoke that day. Everything was such a blur, a whirlwind of legal documents and rushed vows. I’m not sure anyone properly introduced us.
Though identical in height and bone structure, everything about their presence is a study in contrasts. One walks with deliberate, measured steps, a thick book tucked under his arm, his gray-blue eyes observant and calculating. The other strides in with confident energy, his posture loose but alert, like an athlete ready to spring into action.
They both stop when they notice me, their expressions shifting from casual to guarded in perfect synchronicity.
“Nikolai. Lev.” Konstantin acknowledges them with a slight nod. “You remember Isabella.”
The quieter one—Nikolai—studies me with analytical precision, like he’s cataloging every detail for future reference. Lev’s assessment is more direct, a boldness in his gaze that reminds me instantly of his father.
“The new wife,” Lev says, not a question but a statement, crossing his arms.
Alya shoots him a warning look that would make corporate executives crumble.
I straighten my spine. “That’s right. You can call me Bella.” I add, “We didn’t really get a chance to talk at the wedding.”
“Not surprising,” Lev remarks with a shrug. “The whole thing lasted what, twenty minutes? Shortest wedding I’ve ever been to.”
“Lev.” Konstantin’s voice carries quiet warning.
Nikolai steps forward slightly, his movements careful and measured.
“Ignore him. He’s just being Lev.” His voice is softer than his twin’s but no less confident. “It’s nice to officially meet you, Isabella.”
“You too, Nikolai,” I reply, grateful for the momentary diplomacy.
Lev rolls his eyes. “Always the diplomat, Kolya. ”
“Someone has to be,” Nikolai mutters, moving toward the refrigerator. He pulls out a bottle of water with the ease of someone who knows exactly where everything belongs.
“Are you staying for dinner?” Lev asks me directly, ignoring his father’s narrowed gaze. “Or is this just a tour of your new prison?”
“Enough.” Konstantin’s voice is quiet but carries enough authority that all three children straighten slightly. “Get washed up. Both of you.”
The twins exchange a look that contains an entire conversation, then move toward the sink. Nikolai washes his hands methodically while Lev splashes through the motion casually.
I watch the twins settle in, still taken aback by how different they are despite their identical features. I’d seen them at the wedding, of course, but in the whirlwind of that day, I hadn’t had time to notice the nuances of their personalities.
“Is there anyone else I should know about who might appear? A teenage daughter? An elderly aunt? Maybe a pet tiger?”
Konstantin’s mouth quirks. “Just us.”
The twins take seats at the island, Nikolai beside Alya, who slides her tablet slightly to make room for his book. Lev chooses the stool farthest from his siblings, spinning it once before settling.
“Did you finish at the range?” Alya asks.
Lev smirks. “I hit center target ten times.”
“Nine,” Nikolai corrects quietly, not looking up from his book. “The last one was off-center.”
“By like a millimeter,” Lev protests.
“Still counts as a miss,” Nikolai replies.
I catch the flash of pride in Konstantin’s eyes before it disappears behind his mask of calm authority. He moves around the kitchen with surprising grace, his movements efficient and practiced. There’s a rhythm to him I hadn’t noticed before—a certainty that extends beyond boardrooms and criminal enterprises into this mundane, human act of feeding his children.
The dynamics between the siblings fascinate me. Alya maintains her composed presence while occasionally glancing at her brothers with what might be affection buried under layers of studied indifference. Nikolai reads but notices everything, offering quiet observations that reveal his attention never wavers. Lev can’t seem to sit still, tapping his fingers against the counter, his restless energy filling the space between words.
“What about you?” Lev asks suddenly, eyes fixing on me with unsettling directness. “Do you know how to shoot?”
“Lev,” Alya hisses, shooting him a warning look.
“What? It’s a fair question,” he counters. “If she’s living here, she should know how to defend herself.”
I meet his gaze steadily. “I can handle a gun, if that’s what you’re asking.”
All three children look at me with varying degrees of surprise.
“Really?” Lev sounds surprised.
“My father thought every woman should know how to protect herself,” I reply, the memory bittersweet. “He taught me when I was about your age.”
“Was he in security?” Nikolai asks, finally looking up from his book.
I laugh softly. “No. He was a literature professor who watched too many crime shows and worried too much. But he was right about some things.”
Konstantin’s hands still briefly as he looks up at me, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
“Perhaps you can join us at the range sometime,” he says finally, returning to his task. “Show us what you know.”
“Is that an invitation or a test?” I ask.
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Both.”
As the kitchen fills with the scent of yeast and herbs and the barely contained energy of three children who are clearly sizing me up in their own ways, I feel something dangerous unfurl in my chest.
No. Do not go there, Bella.
This isn’t a real family, and this isn’t my real life. This is a business arrangement with pizza night thrown in.
This is a contract, not a Hallmark movie. There is no us, I remind myself firmly.