46. Chapter 46
46
Konstantin
A rseny’s eyes are doing the thing again. That subtle widening, the barely-there twitch in his left brow. The look he reserves for financial crimes, active explosives, and whatever the hell this morning is.
“Are we really doing this?” he asks.
I sip my second coffee—black, no sugar—and nod once.
The coffee is shit. Probably because it’s the second one I’ve had since 6 a.m., and my body knows I haven’t slept. Not a minute. Not even a blink.
I spent the night watching the hallway monitor, half-expecting Bella to appear at the door like some late-night confession. Thought maybe she’d creep down the stairs in that ridiculous satin robe, whisper something about Irina or a burner phone or whatever the hell she’s hiding.
But no.
She went to bed.
Early.
Then woke up before the sun, made pancakes for the kids, braided Alya’s hair, and walked into the office like nothing happened . Like she didn’t spend yesterday vibrating with secrets.
Now she’s pretending I’m the one being weird.
I lean back in my chair and glance at the security footage Timur sent—Bella’s tracker pinged her walking Julian and Lila to school personally this morning. Men are on them. I don’t take chances.
Timur crosses the room and places a tablet down in front of me. “She took the Aston.”
“Good,” I mutter.
“She also made a smoothie. Banana, chia, almond milk.” He pauses, then adds, “It’s in the staff fridge.” Like that part personally offended him.
I grunt and rub my jaw. My stubble’s a day old, and I haven’t changed out of the shirt I wore last night. I told myself it was to look casual.
It’s not. I just forgot.
The door across the hall opens, and all three of us look up at the same time.
Bella steps out.
And— Christ —she looks like a haunted intern trying to fake confidence during a federal audit.
Her eyes are wide. Shoulders tense. Her right hand clutches her phone like it might either save her or betray her. She glances toward my office. Quick. Guilty. Looks away. Starts walking.
She walks five steps in our direction.
Stops.
Turns around and walks back toward her office.
Turns again.
Timur murmurs, “She’s buffering.”
Arseny doesn’t laugh. He’s too busy watching her like she’s a bomb in heels. Which, to be fair, she kind of is.
Bella paces the hallway once more, pauses by the water cooler, presses the button for cold like she suddenly cares about hydration, then walks three more steps in the wrong direction.
“She’s glitching,” Arseny says flatly.
She starts toward my office again, slower this time.
I don’t move. Just sip my coffee and watch her lie to herself.
Timur crosses his arms. “Why don’t we just ask her?”
“Because I want her to tell me.”
“Statistically, women don’t confess under pressure,” Arseny adds. “They commit. Then cry. Then double down. Then gaslight.”
Timur blinks. “Is that data-driven?”
“My ex-wife had a blog.”
“Shut up, you two mudak !”
I turn—and there she is.
Bella freezes by the copier, caught mid-jab at the blinking green button. The machine stutters and spits out half a page before giving up completely, like it knows better than to get involved.
She’s not fixing anything. She’s running.
Her glance flickers to me—fast, guilty, raw.
I take a slow sip of my coffee, letting her squirm, letting her invent whatever excuse she thinks might save her.
She knows I know something.
I know she knows I know something.
But here we are—pretending her nails aren’t tapping against the glass like Morse code for “I fucked up.”
I wait.
Because when she does tell me—when she finally cracks—it better not be a half-truth. It better not be packaged in sarcasm or served with a side of I-didn’t-want-to-bother-you. I want it raw. Unfiltered.
“She’s about to do something stupid,” I say low. “Follow her. No contact unless she bleeds.”
Timur nods once and slips away without a sound.
At the copier, Bella glances at the door—hesitates—then bolts.
Straight back to her office.
The door slams so hard that the frame rattles.
I drag a hand over my face, exhaling sharply through my nose. “Christ. She’s really going through with her stupid decision.”
Arseny snorts. “Define stupid.”
I shift my weight, crossing my arms as Bella’s tiny figure paces the cracked asphalt below us. She’s nervous, twitchy. Sneakers on. Jacket zipped up. Like she thinks she’s starring in her own spy thriller.
“Canceling all her meetings last minute,” I mutter. “Texting me some halfway-clever excuse about meeting a supplier downtown for ‘last-minute paperwork.’ Ubering across the city. Stopping at a fucking gun store.”
Arseny grins, not even trying to hide it. “To be fair, it was a boutique gun store. Very upscale. Yelp gave it four and a half stars.”
Timur snorts behind us.
I don’t take my eyes off Bella. “You laugh like amateurs.”
“She’s not like us,” Arseny says after a beat, quieter now. “Normal people don’t know they’re tracked through their goddamn Starbucks app.”
Below, Bella tugs the hem of her hoodie lower, checking the street like she actually thinks she lost her tail. I almost admire the effort. Almost.
“Where’s Irina?”
Timur nods toward the second monitor. “Five minutes out. Alone.”
“Bullshit,” I say. “Irina’s never alone.”
The Old Marina Car Park is half-rotting under the spring sun, that weird Californian warmth that makes the asphalt smell like burned rubber and salt. Broken lights dangle from rusted poles. Seagulls circle overhead, bitching about nothing.
Arseny taps his earpiece. “Viktor’s men are stationed at the exits. Dmitri’s team is shadowing Irina’s car.”
I nod once, slowly. Every move calculated. Every door covered.
And still—
I hate this.
Hate watching her walk into the jaws of it like some stubborn, reckless little idiot who doesn’t know the world she’s fucking with.
At 10:15, we tracked her buying a small Sig Sauer P365 from that boutique store. Legal, yes. Smart, no.
And now?
She’s got it tucked somewhere. Probably in that stupid crossbody bag she thinks passes as “casual but cute.”
“She’s armed,” Timur confirms through the comms. “Saw her adjusting her strap five minutes ago.”
“Does she even know how to shoot?” Arseny asks, deadpan.
I grind my molars together.
Irina emerges from the shadows near a crumbling concrete pillar, moving low, deliberate. No flashy scarves, no designer drama. Just a black jacket, black jeans, hair pulled tight—the uniform of someone trying not to get noticed. She glances around once, sharp and twitchy, before fixing her gaze on Bella.
Bella sees her. She stiffens, then starts walking toward her.
“Ears on?” I ask.
Arseny shakes his head. “Interference. Parking garage’s eating our signal. We’re blind.”
Blyad. Fucking perfect.
From our vantage point on the third-floor stairwell, I watch them circle each other warily. The signal crackles in and out—broken words bleeding through.
“How can you do this to your own children?” Bella’s voice punches through, raw, angry.
My heart clenches so fast and hard it’s stupid. Instinct. Rage. Fear. It punches through me before I can stop it—seeing her down there, standing her ground for my children like she’s already one of us.
And if anything happens to her—if I lose her—there won’t be a goddamn thing left to salvage.
Then… Static.
Pizdets.
Irina says something—low, cruel—but the mic cuts again.
Arseny fiddles with the receiver. “Getting fragments only.”
“Children… family… ruin you both,” Irina’s voice snaps through.
Bella steps forward, fists tight at her sides, fire flashing across her face. Whatever Irina just said, it hit deep.
“You won’t touch them!” Bella’s voice rips out through the static.
For a second—a stupid, reckless second—it almost looks like Bella thinks she can stare Irina down. Like sheer stubborn will might protect her.
Until Bella’s body jerks.
Subtle. Like she caught something out of the corner of her eye. She starts backing away. One step. Two.
“Something’s wrong,” I say, already moving.
“Orders?” Timur asks, sharp.
Before I can answer, Irina shifts—too smooth, too fast—and four men peel out from behind the derelict sedans and crumbling support columns.
Bella spins.
One grabs her wrist.
Crack.
She’s faster than I thought.
The gun comes out. She shoots—messy, panicked—but the shot lands. One of the men stumbles back, howling, clutching his thigh.
“Move!” I bark.
Timur and Viktor’s team are already vaulting down the stairs. Arseny swings toward the west exit to cut off escape.
Another man slams Bella against the hood of a car. Her body twists, fighting. She’s yelling something—I can’t hear it. Don’t need to.
They’re trying to pull her toward a waiting car.
Not just any car.
A black Dodge Charger, plates stripped.
Irina’s already slipping into another vehicle—a silver Lexus SUV—rolling out the east ramp like she’s just finished brunch and has a Pilates class to get to.
My blood ices over.
Too fast. Too rehearsed.
Too late.
I break into a run, the gunmetal stairwell blurring past me.
And for the first time in a long goddamn time—
I regret.
I regret trusting Bella’s stubborn fire to protect her.
I regret underestimating Irina’s desperation.
And I regret, most of all, thinking I could ever watch Bella walk into a trap without tearing the whole fucking world apart to get her back.