40. Chapter 40
40
Konstantin
T he jet touches down at 11:47 p.m., California time. I’ve been in the air for nearly six hours, and my body is caught somewhere between New York and the Pacific.
California still feels foreign.
Not because it’s unfamiliar. But because she’s here. And that changes everything.
I should’ve known better. Should never have married her.
Not because she’s weak—Bella Marquez is anything but. But because she thinks love is safety. That marrying me would come with the illusion of a white picket fence and Sunday grocery runs.
She didn’t marry a fucking office worker.
She married a man who knows how long it takes to dissolve a body and which federal judge can make a charge disappear before it ever hits a docket.
And the world? The world is going to punish her for it.
We’re almost home when Timur turns to me from the front seat of the SUV. His voice low. “We traced the burner.”
I don’t ask. He keeps talking.
“Pinged off a relay tower near Salinas. Run-down roadside motel off Route 183. Seventy bucks a night, cash only. Manager’s half-blind, no cameras. Room 112’s been occupied since yesterday—checked in under a fake name.”
Of course it was.
“Team’s already on-site,” Timur adds. “Perimeter’s quiet. Lights still on inside. No sign of movement.”
I nod once. It’s enough.
The estate gates open as we pull up, floodlights casting shadows that stretch like fingers across the gravel. I step out before the engine cuts, jaw tight, mind louder than the silence around me.
Someone reached for her. Someone fucking dared.
The Cullinan eases forward. The gates open before we reach them—camera scans already confirmed our arrival. The estate is quiet. Still. Like it’s holding its breath.
I don’t go through the main entrance. I head for the private garage.
Security knows the drill. No one speaks. No one lingers. The private lift waits at the far end—secure access only. I step inside, swipe my ID, thumbprint scan follows. No one rides with me.
I take the private lift upstairs. I walk the corridor to her door. I stand there—silent, fists in my pockets like some fucking adolescent—listening.
She’s asleep.
I should go in. Wake her. Ask her why the fuck she didn’t tell me about the call. Press her against the wall and remind her what it means to wear my ring.
But I don’t.
Because if I go in there, I won’t want to leave. And I’ve already made too many mistakes when it comes to her.
I force myself to keep walking.
My room is three doors down. The shower runs hot, steam swallowing everything. The water burns, and I let it. I scrub away the flight, the boardroom, the stale stench of New York pretenders. But not her. I can’t wash her off. Not from under my skin. Not from my fucking head.
I look in the mirror and see a man who shouldn’t be feeling this much.
She’s making me soft.
Or worse—she’s making me feel .
Blyad.
I throw on black—no tie, no watch. Just muscle memory and control. But my body reminds me it’s been running on adrenaline and stubbornness. And now, I’m starving.
Not just for her. For food.
The kitchen is quiet when I enter. Late. Past midnight. But Oleg’s still here.
He stands near the stove, not doing anything. Just… present. Like he’s been waiting.
A tray’s already on the counter. Grilled chicken, jasmine rice, vegetables that somehow smell like comfort and discipline at the same time.
I don’t ask. I sit.
He places a folded napkin beside the plate. Pours water into the crystal glass I never use. Moves like habit, like ritual.
“You saw her,” I say.
It’s not a question.
He nods once. “Yes.”
I pick up the fork but don’t touch the food.
“She was shaken when she arrived,” he says after a moment. “Something had her rattled.”
“I know.”
“She smiled anyway. For the kids.”
Of course she did.
Oleg leans against the counter across from me. His posture is relaxed, but his eyes are sharp. Watching. Always.
“The twins lit up when they saw her,” he says quietly. “Lev pulled her straight into the kitchen to help with his science project. She didn’t even take her coat off.”
I glance at him. “And my mother?”
“Watched from the hallway. Didn’t speak.” His tone tightens. “Didn’t need to. She’s already circling.”
Figures.
“What about the children?” I ask.
Oleg hesitates—just for a second. Then he says, “They were happy, Konstantin . All three of them. I haven’t seen them like that in a long time.”
That sinks deep.
“Even Alya?”
“She handed Bella a book,” he says, voice low. “Told her she was in charge of bedtime.”
My jaw clenches.
He watches me for another moment. Then, more gently, “They miss having someone…” He stops.
“Irina never gave them that.”
Oleg’s eyes don’t move. But the air shifts—just enough to feel it.
“No,” he says. “But neither did Tatiana.”
That makes me look up.
“She made sure they had everything. Tutors. Clean uniforms. Maids who rotated like soldiers on shift.” He pauses. “Not one ever lasted more than six months.”
“She didn’t like them getting attached,” I mutter.
“No,” Oleg says. “She didn’t like being compared.”
Of course she didn’t. Tatiana never raised those boys. She oversaw them. Like assets. Like future tools in her war chest.
“She said affection made them soft,” Oleg adds. “So, she hired structure. Hired rules. Hired order. But she never gave them herself.”
And now Bella walks in, stitches a project back together with a piece of thread and a tired smile, and they look at her like she hung the moon.
Because she did the one thing neither Irina ever could.
She showed up.
And she actually cared.
I push the tray away slightly. Appetite gone.
Oleg doesn’t move.
“She didn’t just keep them busy,” he says. “She saw them. Listened. She put that broken school project together like it was war prep. No complaints. No theatrics. Just—quiet. Calm.”
“She’s not their mother.”
“She doesn’t need to be,” he says. “But tonight… she seemed like one.”
The silence lands hard. I feel it in my chest—like a blow I wasn’t braced for.
Chyort voz’mi.
I push back from the counter and pace a step to the side like it’ll help burn the feeling off. It doesn’t.
I’ve known Oleg for fifteen years. Since the days when I was Anatoly’s shadow with blood on my hands and no idea what the fuck softness looked like. Oleg’s seen every version of me—from the man who couldn’t hold a relationship longer than a week to the one standing over a crib wondering how the hell to raise a daughter with a wife who wouldn’t come home.
He never offered advice. Never overstepped. Just stayed. Fed me. Protected the kids. Made sure I didn’t fall all the way apart.
I’ve never once raised my voice to him. Because you don’t bark at the man who pieces your world back together while pretending he’s just setting out dinner.
He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t need to.
Instead, he looks at his phone. Reads something. Tucks it away.
Then, quietly: “The Pakhan wants to see you.”
I head downstairs. The hall outside my father’s private study is empty, just like it always is this late. Except for one of the guards—who gives me a nod and opens the door without a word.
Anatoly Belov is not a man you interrupt.
He’s already pouring a drink when I enter, his back to me. His reflection in the glass shows eyes that haven’t dulled despite the years.
“So,” he says, “the groom returns.”
“I need you to step down,” I answer.
He turns. Slowly. Like the weight of the empire still sits on his shoulders—and maybe it does.
“The wedding’s barely cold,” he says, sipping whatever sixty-year-old poison he favors tonight. “And already you want my chair.”
“I don’t want it.” I move to the edge of the desk, hands braced on the carved wood. “I’m taking it. You either bless it, or you delay what’s already inevitable.”
He watches me with that look only a father gives—like he built me with his bare hands and still isn’t sure I deserve the breath I take.
“Isabella,” he says finally.
Of course. Suka.
“She’s not one of us,” he adds. “You think this family will bow to a woman who’s never held a gun? Never tasted blood in her mouth? She’s—”
“You made the choice last time. You picked Irina Mikhailova.”
His eyes narrow, but he stays silent.
“She walked out on your empire like it meant nothing. Abandoned your grandchildren. That was your call.”
A beat. Thick with things neither of us say out loud.
“And now?” I lean in, voice low. “I’m making mine.”
Anatoly takes his eyes off me. Reaches for his glass. Takes a long, measured sip like he’s swallowing down whatever thought nearly made it to his mouth.
I take a step closer. “You want to know if I’m ready? Here’s your answer: I’ve already secured assets on three continents, buried two boardrooms, and married a woman who makes me fucking dangerous. Because for the first time in my life—”
I pause.
Then he looks back and studies me.
“This isn’t about her,” I change tack, voice flat. “It’s about the position. And the timing.”
Anatoly’s jaw flexes. He doesn’t like being spoken to like this. I don’t care.
“You know what Filipp’s doing,” I say. “You’ve seen the moves. The alliances he’s trying to build. You think he’s going to wait for your blessing?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.
“You step down clean,” I continue, “or we lose control of the narrative. You want a war inside your own house?”
He takes a slow sip, still seated—like he’s got all the time in the world. Like I’m just another boy trying to sound like a man in his presence.
Then he sets the glass down, smooth and deliberate. And says—
“Let me tell you something about love… It’s useless, and a fucking leash wrapped around your neck. You think it makes you strong, but it just tells the world where to strike.”
Love.
The word doesn’t mean a damn thing to me. Not with Irina. Not with anyone.
I fucked her. We had kids. She vanished. That’s not love. That’s a contract that expired early.
So why the hell is he talking to me like I’m some romantic idiot waiting to bleed for it?
I’m not here to cry about feelings. I’m here for the fucking seat.