44. Chapter 44
44
Bella
“ Nyet, nyet , Alya… not ‘pajama.’” Konstantin’s voice rumbles beside me, patient in a way that should be illegal. “ Pomni, not pajama. ”
Alya giggles like it’s the best punchline she’s ever heard. “But paaaajama sounds better!”
Konstantin laughs—a rich, throaty sound that’s like whiskey poured over a campfire, his grin flashing for a split second before it settles into something softer, almost boyish.
Jesus. I hate how good he looks when he’s not actively terrifying someone.
Happy Konstantin Belov is a goddamn masterpiece, those storm-gray eyes sparkling, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass but warm with a fatherly glow that’s pure kryptonite. Oh-my-God hot. Like, I’d-climb-him-in-a-school-zone-and-plead-guilty hot, the kind of hot that makes you forget you’re sitting on a powder keg of mafia secrets.
And I swear to God—my uterus just makes a sound. A high-pitched, glittery squee only dogs and emotionally unstable women can hear.
People think sexy is all cheekbones and tailored suits and brooding silence, but no. No , the hottest thing in the world is a mafia man gently correcting his daughter’s pronunciation of a Soviet lullaby in a bulletproof SUV, while looking like he could choke out a federal agent with one hand and still make it to school drop-off with the other.
I should stop myself, but I can’t help staring at the domestic crime lord tableau playing out in front of me.
His sleeves are rolled. His voice is soft. His hand is resting on the back of Alya’s booster seat like it’s the most natural thing in the world and not the reason I’m currently reconsidering every moral boundary I’ve ever had. And all I can think is how I’d let this man break every contract clause if he keeps laughing like that.
Pull it together, Bella. You’re not a dark romance badass ready to face off with Irina. You’re just a real estate chick with a death wish and a serious kink for lullaby lessons.
And then he turns, and the barest curve tugs at his mouth like a hook in my chest.
What the hell is this?
My heart lurches, my breath catching like I’ve been sucker-punched by a rom-com montage. Is he allowed to do that?
Okay. I am— officially —losing brain cells.
My legs are crossed like I’m trying to hide the fact that I’m spiraling. My purse is on my lap like a trauma blanket. I am one Russian vowel away from snapping in half.
And then—reality slaps me across the face.
Because, oh yeah. I have problems.
Life-and-death level problems.
Ex-wife-wants-to-meet-me-in-a-creepy-parking-lot-alone problems.
Because this isn’t normal.
This isn’t me tiptoeing around the kitchen with Julian half-asleep at the table and Lila griping about the wrong cereal. This is military-grade vehicles, bodyguards with earpieces, and me sitting shotgun next to a man who kisses like sin and conducts bedtime Russian grammar lessons like it’s foreplay.
Thank God for the kids. Seriously.
Trapped between my anxiety, my secrets, and this stupid, fluttery feeling in my chest that’s about to ruin my life.
I shift slightly, adjusting the strap of my purse like it’s not carrying the weight of a loaded Glock and a whole lot of moral ambiguity.
What should I do?
I should tell him.
I should .
Instead, I glance at him.
And he glances back, eyes unreadable, iPad in one hand, child’s song echoing in the background.
“What is it?” he asks.
I open my mouth, and nothing comes out. My throat’s a desert, my heart’s a fucking jackhammer, and Irina’s message— Friday. 12 p.m. Old Marina Car Park. West Exit. Come alone. —is a noose tightening around my neck.
I want to spill it, to tell him about his ex-wife’s threat, about Julian and Lila’s safety hanging by a thread, but the words stick like glue. If I tell him, Irina will know. She’ll hurt them. My brother and sister, the only family I’ve fought for since I was 16—they’re all I have. I’m not a mafia queen with a playbook for this shit.
“Uh, nothing,” I manage, my voice a pathetic squeak, my smile so fake it could star in a toothpaste ad. “Just… Alya’s song. It’s cute .”
His eyes narrow just a fraction, and I know he doesn’t buy it.
“ Cute, ” he repeats, like it’s a foreign word he’s never had cause to say out loud. Then—without looking at me: “You’re fidgeting like someone with secrets.”
What?
Before I can process that, the SUV takes a smooth left turn—too smooth—and inertia shoves me right into his side. Shoulder against shoulder. Purse wedged between us like it’s going to absorb the sheer amount of “ what the actual hell?” radiating off my body.
I freeze. He doesn’t move.
Am I fidgeting?
I don’t fidget. I exude calm. I radiate normal. I am the human embodiment of Google Calendar and overpriced concealer—
“I’m just adjusting my seatbelt,” I say too quickly, pulling at the strap like it had wronged me in a past life. “Safety first.”
“ Da ,” he murmurs, still not looking. “And truth second?”
Oh, my God. That’s it.
My brain’s throwing a full-on panic luau, complete with flaming torches and a pig roast labeled “Bella’s Last Shred of Sanity.” My heart’s doing the Macarena in a minefield, and I’m one wrong blink from turning this SUV into a confessional or a crime scene.
The twins, of course, pick this moment to join the conversation.
“Papa hates liars,” Lev pipes up from the third row, his voice casual but slicing through my panic like a guillotine. He’s still scrolling his phone, headphones dangling, oblivious to the bomb he just dropped. “Remember when Nikolai tried to hide that he broke the drone? Papa grounded him for a month.”
Nikolai, nose buried in Dune , snorts without looking up. “It was two weeks, idiot. And I didn’t lie— I just didn’t tell him. ”
“Same thing,” Alya chimes in, her plush bear bouncing as she twists in her booster seat to face the boys. “Papa says the truth is like… um, like a shield. Right, Papa? You always know when someone’s not telling it.”
Konstantin’s gaze flicks to Alya, then back to me, and there’s a weight in it, a subtle edge that makes my stomach drop.
“That’s right, solnyshko ,” he says, his voice calm but laced with something that makes my skin prickle. “The truth keeps you safe. Secrets… they leave you exposed.”
Oh, glittery fucknuggets, he’s reading my mind like a Russian lie-detector app!
My internal scream’s a full-blown disco inferno now. If he’s onto me, Julian and Lila are toast because Irina’s threat is a ticking glitter bomb, and Konstantin’s not exactly the hugs-and-forgiveness type.
I force a laugh, high-pitched and brittle, like a rom-com sidekick who’s about to get axed.
“Yeah, honesty’s the best policy, right? Like, totally .” My voice is a trainwreck, and I’m clutching my purse so tight my knuckles are screaming for mercy.
Konstantin’s lips twitch, not quite a smile, more like a wolf sizing up a particularly clueless lamb.
“ Totally ,” he echoes, his tone dry as a desert, and that one word is a fucking landmine. He leans back, iPad resting on his knee, but his eyes don’t leave mine, and I’m pretty sure he’s mentally dissecting my soul to find whatever I’m hiding.
“Papa’s like a human lie detector,” Lev says, grinning, still scrolling. “He caught me sneaking cookies last week just by looking at the crumbs on my shirt.”
Not helping, kiddo.
“Genius detective work,” Nikolai mutters, rolling his eyes, but there’s a fondness in it, like he’s proud of Konstantin’s terrifying radar. “You’re not exactly a mastermind, Lev.”
Alya giggles, hugging her bear. “Papa always knows! Like when I said I didn’t eat the glitter glue, but he saw it on my teeth!”
I choke on my own spit, coughing to cover the fact that my brain’s screaming: “ HE KNOWS, HE KNOWS, AND I’M GONNA BE GLITTER-GLUE-GUILTY IN A DITCH!”
My heart’s doing cartwheels in a minefield, and I’m trying to smile like I’m not picturing Irina’s hitmen circling Julian and Lila’s school.
“Bella, you okay?” Alya asks, tilting her head, her bear dangling. “You look like you saw a ghost.”
Oh, kid, you have no idea.
I force another smile, my face practically cracking under the effort.
“Just, uh, thinking about glitter glue. Sticky stuff, right?”
Konstantin’s gaze lingers, his iPad now idle, and I swear he’s cataloging every twitch of my face like I’m a suspect in his personal crime drama.
“Sticky, indeed,” he says, his voice low, layered with something that makes my skin crawl. “Hard to clean up once it’s out.”
“Ha—ha—” I try to laugh at Konstantin’s supposed joke, but it comes out like a dying hyena, my voice wobbling as I grasp for anything to fill the silence.
“We’re here, sir,” Viktor says from the driver’s seat, his voice flat but cutting through the tension like a lifeline.
Konstantin’s stare finally shifts to the window, and I exhale, not realizing I’d been holding my breath like I was auditioning for a deep-sea diving horror flick. My lungs scream thank you , but my heart’s still doing the cha-cha in a panic-glitter storm.
The convoy slows, turning into the private school’s lot, its wrought-iron gates flanked by manicured hedges and discreet cameras. The twins’ school is a 30-minute drive from the estate, a fortress of elite education where tuition could buy a small country. The boys grab their backpacks, Lev still rambling about pizza, Nikolai shoving his book into his bag with a sigh.
Nikolai slides off the seat, turning his head toward Konstantin, his notebook tucked under his arm. He glances at me, then back to his father, a quiet smile tugging at his lips, so subtle it’s like catching a shooting star.
“It’s cool having you both drop us off today,” he says.
I glance at Konstantin, who’s looking at Nikolai with that unreadable intensity, then at me, a flicker of warmth in his eyes.
My heart stumbles because I know what this means to them.
They’ve never had this—both parents, together, sending them off. Irina was gone before Alya could walk, and Konstantin was always working, leaving Mariya or Yelena to handle it. But now, with me here, they’re looking at us like we’re something whole, and it’s tearing me apart in ways I can’t name.
Alya’s still strapped in beside me, swinging her legs and humming the last line of the song like she’s got her own theme music. She waves dramatically through the tinted window as Lev and Nikolai hop out, their bags slung over their shoulders, already being swallowed by the school gates.
“Bye-bye! See you later, alligator!” she calls, then turns to me with a grin that’s way too grown for her sparkly unicorn hoodie. “Shopping time now?”
I nod, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “What color would you like?”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Pink. But not the baby one. The cool pink. Like flamingo pink. Like fight-me pink.”
Konstantin chuckles under his breath. Just once. Then silence.
I glance over.
His phone is in his hand now, thumb pausing over a message he’s just read—something short, from the way his eyes narrow. A beat later, he sets it down in the center console, screen facedown. He never does that. Not unless whatever he read just rearranged his whole mood.
His gaze lifts slowly to meet mine.
The warmth is gone.
No smirk. No teasing glint. No soft edges.
Just that look. The one that says something’s wrong.
The one that says: this day just changed.
And I have a very bad feeling it’s not about a pink backpack.