17. Chapter 17
17
Konstantin
S he doesn’t clean the flour off her dress.
Cream fabric, streaked across the hip like she’s been marked by the mess of earlier. She doesn’t care.
I’ve been watching her since she stepped into the garden.
The evening sky bleeds orange and purple beyond the glass walls as we settle at the table. My children slide into their usual places—Nikolai and Lev on one side, Alya insisting on the chair closest to Bella on the other. I take my place at the head, watching as my wife hesitates between two chairs before choosing the one to my right.
She’s learning. Finding her place. The thought satisfies something primal in me that I choose not to examine too closely.
The pizza sits on artisanal boards at the center, steam rising like an offering. Outside, the garden glows with hanging lanterns that catch in Bella’s hair when she turns. I notice these things without wanting to—the way light fractures against her skin, how her fingers drum against the table edge when she’s nervous.
Like now.
“Is the wine breathing properly?” My mother’s voice cuts through the moment before it forms.
I don’t need to turn to recognize the cadence of her arrival. The children’s reactions tell me everything—Alya straightening her spine like a soldier, Nikolai rising automatically, Lev’s face splitting into a grin that rarely appears for anyone else.
“ Babushka !” Lev practically launches himself at her. Always the dramatic one.
My mother stands in the entryway like she’s been carved from marble and steel. She accepts Lev’s exuberance graciously, bending slightly to receive his embrace.
“My little wolves,” she murmurs, pressing kisses to their foreheads. Her eyes—the same steel-blue shade all my children inherited—warm momentarily.
Then she straightens, and that warmth vanishes as her gaze lands on Bella.
Behind my mother stands a young woman I’ve never seen before, clutching a tray of appetizers like it might explode. Young, barely twenty, with downcast eyes and trembling hands. Oleg, my head of household staff for fifteen years, follows closely behind, his expression tightening at the girl’s obvious inexperience.
“Set those down, girl,” my mother commands without looking back. “Not on the edge—center of the table.”
The unfamiliar maid jolts forward, nearly tripping. The tray wobbles dangerously.
Bella moves without hesitation, rising to steady the tray before it can topple.
“I’ve got it, Anya,” she says softly to the girl. “Take your time.”
I make a mental note to review our staffing procedures. Oleg knows better than to put untrained help on dinner service—particularly when my mother is visiting. I take a sip of the wine, letting the bold notes of the 2009 Bordeaux smooth over my irritation.
My mother’s eyebrow lifts a fraction of an inch—her version of open disapproval.
“Konstantin,” she says, turning to me as she takes her seat across from Bella. “Your staff requires better training.”
“Oleg,” I address my head of household, who stands at attention near the wall. “Who is this?”
“Anya Petrova, sir,” Oleg responds, his baritone voice betraying nothing. “Began yesterday. She’s under training now.”
“Clearly not enough training,” my mother sniffs.
Bella glances at me, something uncertain flickering across her face. Seeking permission or perhaps reassurance. I offer neither, curious what she’ll do without it.
She sets her shoulders—that small, defiant movement I’m beginning to recognize—and smiles at my mother.
But my mother turns abruptly toward Alya.
“And how are your advanced mathematics classes coming along?” my mother asks, completely ignoring Bella’s presence. “Professor Kuznetsov mentioned you were ahead of schedule.”
“We’re working on differential equations now,” Alya replies, sitting straighter. “He says I could be ready for calculus by next month.”
Bella’s eyes widen slightly. She looks from my 8-year-old daughter to me with disbelief.
“Calculus?” she whispers under her breath. “At 8?”
I merely incline my head. My children are exceptional. It’s expected.
“And your tactical assessment scores?” my mother continues, putting a slice of pizza on Alya’s plate smoothly.
“Ninety-three percent,” Alya reports. “But Lev still beat me on the obstacle course.”
“Only because I’m taller,” Lev interjects, mouth half-full.
Bella looks increasingly bewildered. “Tactical… assessment?”
“Survival training,” Nikolai explains quietly. “Field strategy, defensive maneuvers, weapon recognition.”
“For children,” Bella says flatly.
“For heirs,” I correct, my voice low enough that only she can hear.
Bella stares at me for a moment, then takes a very large sip of her wine.
My mother finally turns her attention to my new wife, as if just remembering her presence.
“Isabella Marquez,” my mother says, testing the name like she’s tasting wine she expects to be vinegar. “That’s Hispanic, isn’t it?”
And there it is. The first move in a game Bella doesn’t know she’s playing.
“Yes,” Bella answers. “My grandfather came from Mexico. My father was half-Mexican, half-Irish. My mother was Italian.”
“Was?” my mother presses, reaching for her wine.
Bella’s fingers still against the tablecloth. “She passed when I was 16.”
“How unfortunate,” my mother says, without a hint of actual sympathy. “And what did your grandfather do in Mexico before… immigrating?”
The pause before “immigrating” is deliberate, laden with implication.
Lev stabs a piece of pizza onto his plate. “Can we eat now? I’m starving.”
“Patience, Lev,” I say quietly. “Serve your grandmother first.”
He huffs but complies, placing a perfect slice on her plate with exaggerated care.
Bella watches this exchange, absorbing our rituals. Learning our ways without instruction. It’s… unexpected.
“My grandfather was a janitor,” she says, turning back to my mother. “At a hospital in Ciudad Juárez first, then in El Paso after they moved.”
My mother’s lips purse slightly. Disappointment confirmed.
“A sanitation worker,” she corrects, as though the euphemism might elevate the position.
“No, a janitor,” Bella repeats, her tone light but unyielding. “That’s what he called himself. He was proud of it.”
I watch her closely, noting the slight flush at her throat, the way her chin lifts. This matters to her.
“He worked night shifts for thirty years,” she continues. “Sent money home to his parents. Put my dad through college. He taught me how to change a tire when I was 12 and how to shoot a .22 when I was 14.” She pauses, then adds, “He also made killer tamales and could recite García Lorca from memory.”
My mother’s expression doesn’t change, but I know what she’s thinking. Janitors don’t recite Spanish poetry. Not in her worldview.
“How fascinating,” she says, in a tone that suggests it’s anything but.
The kids go quiet. Entirely focused.
“He’d come home covered in bleach and floor wax,” Bella continues, her voice soft but unwavering. “My grandma used to make him leave his shoes outside so the chemicals wouldn’t seep into the house.”
Lev squints, elbows on the table. “What’s floor wax?”
“To make the floors shiny,” Bella explains. “So they sparkle even when you’re dead tired.”
Alya rests her chin in her hand, watching Bella like she’s telling a bedtime story. Nikolai’s eyes narrow, but there’s interest sparking there. Good, I think.
“He used to say,” Bella goes on, “it wasn’t about loving the job. It was about what the job could do. He cleaned floors so his kids wouldn’t have to.”
Something tightens at the back of my throat. Recognition. I swallow it down.
“My father worked construction,” Bella adds, smile crooked with pride. “He’d say he was building more than houses. He was building chances.”
My mother’s expression is carved from frost, but there’s a flicker in her gaze—a crack beneath the polish. She doesn’t respect the past Bella comes from, but she can’t miss the steel it forged.
“My grandfather never finished school,” Bella finishes, voice dipping low, warm. “But he made sure his children did. And I did, too.”
There it is. Strength, clear as day. Not polished marble. Not born of power. Earned.
Lev looks at her like she’s just delivered the punchline to the world’s greatest joke.
“Your grandpa sounds like a badass.”
“He was,” Bella says, matching his grin. “No one could scrub a toilet like him.”
Alya giggles. Even Nikolai’s mouth quirks into what might be a smile.
My mother’s eyes sweep over Bella once more, taking inventory. I know that look. She sees it now, too—sees what I do. The resilience. The fire beneath the polish.
My wife is not made of glass. She is made of something far tougher.
The girl—Anya—reappears with a fresh bottle of wine, her hands still trembling as she approaches. I watch Bella track her movements, something like protectiveness crossing her features. Oleg hovers nearby, clearly anticipating disaster.
“I can do that,” Bella offers, reaching for the bottle.
My mother makes a small sound—disapproval wrapped in a throat clearing.
Bella hesitates, glancing at me. This time, I give her the smallest nod. Permission granted. Not that she needs it, but she’s still learning where the boundaries lie.
She takes the bottle from Anya’s grateful hands and begins pouring with surprising confidence, starting with my mother’s glass.
Anya retreats with a nervous glance over her shoulder, but Bella stays steady, the bottle still cradled in her hands like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She finishes pouring for my mother before finally filling her own glass.
She sets the bottle down, picks up a slice of pizza, and takes a bite without ceremony.
Chews.
Chews again.
Then her gaze cuts to me, sharp and suspicious. Her eyes narrow, lips curving just slightly.
“Alright,” she says, still chewing, “who taught you to cook like this?”
Not a question of surprise—she knows exactly how I made it. She’s calling me out, almost like it’s some kind of personal betrayal.
Alya perks up, delighted. Even Nikolai’s mouth tugs at the corner, amusement ghosting across his face.
My mother’s gaze sharpens, and I catch the flicker of approval before she masks it behind her usual poise. She turns her glass in her hand, watching the wine catch the light.
“Konstantin has always been skilled in the kitchen,” she says smoothly. “His father, however, couldn’t boil water without burning it.”
Bella finishes her bite, brushes a crumb from the corner of her mouth, and raises an eyebrow.
“So not inherited, then.”
“No,” my mother replies, her gaze never leaving Bella. “But stubbornness is its own kind of legacy.”
There’s a beat, just long enough to be deliberate. Then she lets the blade slide in beneath the ribs, casual as anything.
“Speaking of your father,” she addresses me, like this was her plan all along, “how is he doing today? Still causing the nurses grief?”
I take a slow sip of wine, keeping my eyes on Bella. “Improving. The doctors say he’s showing better responses. I’ll take Bella to meet him tomorrow.”
Bella’s brows pull together, the smallest crease of confusion. She glances at me, clearly caught off guard.
“Your father-in-law is recovering from a stroke,” my mother explains to Bella, watching her reaction carefully. “Six months in a coma. Now he’s awake but… difficult.”
“Difficult is diplomatic,” I say. “ Pakhan Belov doesn’t take well to weakness—especially his own.”
“ Pakhan …” Bella repeats, the foreign word awkward on her tongue.
“The head of the organization,” Nikolai supplies helpfully. “Grandfather was Pakhan before Papa.”
Understanding dawns on Bella’s face, followed quickly by something like alarm.
It clicks right there. I see it in her face, the moment the dots connect. Her gaze sweeps the table, from Alya’s easy amusement to my mother’s cool observation, and finally lands on me.
She lifts her glass slowly, almost like she’s bracing for impact, her brows lifted high.
“Right, of course,” she says, the word drawn out as her eyes narrow just a touch.
Then—like she’s not entirely sure what else to do—she gives a stiff little nod. Her nod looks like she’s agreeing to sign her own death warrant.
Which, in a way, she has.
I reach for my glass to hide the smirk threatening to pull at my mouth.
Welcome to the family, moya zhena.