52. Chapter 52
52
Konstantin
I hear her before I see her.
The soft screech of wheelchair wheels over stone tile. Uneven. Grating. The kind of sound that tells me someone forgot to oil the damn bearings again.
I step into the hall just as they come around the corner.
Anya’s pushing. Yelena’s trailing behind like judgment wrapped in cashmere. And Nikolai walks beside the chair like her personal security detail—hands in his pockets, too casual for how closely he’s watching her.
Bella’s in a hospital gown that swallows her frame, one arm strapped tightly across her chest, hair pulled up in a chaotic bun like she fought off a tornado and only half-won. She still looks like she could bite someone.
Good. That means she’s still herself.
But there’s color in her cheeks now. Real color. Not that washed-out gray from last week. Not the flushed fever when the infection tried to take what the wreck didn’t. Just… life.
Something in my chest unclenches. Barely. I don’t let it show.
Her eyes lock on mine the second she sees me. Wide. Caught-off-guard, like she’s been busted doing something shameful—which is ridiculous, considering she’s in a goddamn wheelchair.
Alya’s steps quicken, her face lighting up. “Papa!” She hurries toward me, a burst of energy that almost lifts her off her feet.
Nikolai follows a step behind, his eyes meeting mine. He gives a single, firm nod — the kind that says, I missed you, without actually saying it. Simple. Understated. The way men in this family acknowledge each other.
I let the smallest hint of a smile slip through. Then my gaze shifts past them — landing on Bella. She glances away, eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder, but the wheelchair jolts.
I step forward just as the wheels catch, one veering slightly off course.
Anya flinches, scrambling to correct the trajectory like she thinks one crooked push will get her executed.
“I’ve got it,” I say, moving in.
Anya freezes. Nearly bows. Disappears like I pulled a trapdoor under her.
I take the handles. Not because I have to. Because I want to. Because seeing Bella in that chair does something ugly to my chest and I need control over something right now.
She doesn’t speak. But I feel her body react—like a wire pulled tight. Then… the tension eases. Slowly. Her spine softens. She lets me push her.
Yelena doesn’t comment. Just follows.
We move down the corridor, smooth and steady, Nikolai pacing beside us.
“So, what are we having?” Bella asks, her voice light but strained around the edges. “Please tell me it’s not another bowl of that gray soup with the mystery chunks.”
Nikolai snorts. “ Borscht . And no. Mariya made shashlik tonight.”
“Shash-what now?”
“Meat skewers,” I translate, guiding her chair around the corner where the elevator waits. “With pomegranate marinade.”
“And pirozhki ,” Nikolai adds. “The ones with cabbage and mushrooms that the chef makes.”
“Food with actual flavor,” Bella says, her voice dropping to a mock whisper. “I might cry.”
The elevator doors slide open. I wheel her inside, positioning the chair at the precise center. Nikolai steps in, followed by Yelena, who presses the button for the main floor without asking.
We descend in silence. Bella’s fingers tap against her knee—a nervous habit I’ve cataloged among her many tells. The doors open to the west wing corridor, all polished stone and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the cliffside. Sunset bleeds orange and gold across the Pacific, turning the water to fire.
Bella inhales sharply. “I’ve been stuck in that medical wing so long, I forgot the rest of this place existed.”
“You’ve seen very little of it,” I say, pushing her forward past the formal library with its two-story shelves. “There will be time.”
“Is that… is that a tree? Inside?” She cranes her neck as we pass the indoor courtyard, where a hundred-year-old olive tree grows beneath a retractable glass ceiling.
“Anatoly’s idea,” I say. “From the old country.”
Nikolai trails his hand along the stone half-wall. “Alya likes to climb it when no one’s looking.”
“Smart kid,” Bella murmurs. A smile flickers across her lips—small. Real.
We turn down another corridor lined with black-and-white canvases. Abstract. Violent. Stark slashes of chaos in expensive frames.
She studies them like they’re puzzles she’s halfway through solving.
“Let me guess.” She points to one particularly unhinged piece. “This is called ‘Murder Scene Number Five’?”
“ Redemption ,” Yelena says. “Petrov. 1967.”
Bella jerks her head around, stunned. It’s the most words my mother’s strung together in her presence.
We reach the kitchen. The family one. Not the industrial fortress where staff prep twelve-course dinners. This room is warm. Stone counters. Hanging copper pots. Lanterns glowing on the patio just beyond the glass.
Bella blinks. “We eat in here?”
“My father had this room built for family dinners,” I say, steering her inside. “Not the formal ones. The real ones.”
She stiffens. So do I.
The word sits between us like a loaded gun.
Family.
It doesn’t have to be spoken out loud to echo.
Behind us, a maid spots me and quickly begins clearing a space at the head of the table. Another one rushes in with fresh utensils and folded napkins. No one needs instructions. They just move.
Then the atmosphere shifts. I don’t even have to look. I feel it.
Anatoly walks in.
The staff snap straighter.
I push the wheelchair closer to the table—my usual spot. Then stop.
“What?” she asks, cautious.
I don’t answer. I just reach down and lift her out of the wheelchair.
She tenses immediately. “Konstantin—”
“Let me.”
Her breath catches, but she doesn’t fight me. Her good arm loops around my neck, clumsy and unsure. I feel her heartbeat, quick and high. I feel how light she is. How breakable.
I set her down gently into the seat beside mine.
She adjusts her sling, avoids my eyes, and mutters, “You know I could’ve walked.”
“And I didn’t want you to.”
The room goes quiet.
Conversation dies. Even Anatoly’s glass stops halfway to his lips.
Bella shifts in her seat, glancing around like she’s missed the punchline.
“Jesus,” she mutters. “You’d think I just married him or something.”
Alya tilts her head. “Yes, you did just marry Papa. You silly.”
Bella chokes on air.
Lev grins. “Bella’s blushing !”
Her cheeks go pink immediately. She stares down at her plate like it just betrayed her.
Nikolai doesn’t say anything. But he’s biting the inside of his cheek, failing to hide a smile.
I cough once. Dry.
Then I sit.
“Let the kitchen know we’re ready,” I say—without looking up.
Oleg’s already moving. The man doesn’t need commands—he just needs timing. A door swings open, and food begins arriving in quiet, practiced waves.
The first course is set in front of Bella—stuffed cabbage, sliced roast duck, and beet salad. She blinks down at it, and I already know she’s trying to figure out how she’s going to cut anything one-handed without looking pathetic.
I take her knife and start cutting the duck breast into neat, even pieces.
She stares at me like I just reached across the table and proposed marriage with a ring hidden under the garnish.
“What… are you doing?” she whispers.
“Feeding my wife,” I say flatly.
“Since when?!”
“Since now.”
Across the table, Alya lets out a delighted squeak.
Lev is cackling. “Oh, my God. This is too cheesy.”
Bella doesn’t say a word.
She just chews.
Eyes wide. Face red. Like maybe if she just keeps eating, we’ll all forget what just happened.
Nikolai lifts his glass, barely hiding a grin.
I nudge her plate a little closer. “Eat. Before it gets cold.”
“I can cut my own food,” she murmurs.
“Undoubtedly. With one hand and significant nerve damage in your dominant arm? Less efficiently.”
Her nostrils flare. But she doesn’t argue further, which tells me just how tired she still is.
“Papa was really scary when you were hurt,” Alya announces, reaching for a piece of bread. “He broke a door.”
I shoot my daughter a warning look. She ignores it with inherited precision.
“And he yelled at Dr. Katya when she said you needed more surgery.” Alya’s eyes are wide, like she’s telling a ghost story at a sleepover. “But then he got really quiet, which was scarier.”
“Alya.” My voice contains a warning.
“What?” She blinks innocently. “ Babushka says honesty builds character.”
My mother sips her wine without comment.
Suddenly, a low sound cuts through the clink of forks and the quiet buzz of the kids.
A deep laugh.
Rough. From the chest. Too rare to mistake.
Anatoly.
I don’t look up at first. I know he’s been watching. Since the second Bella was wheeled in. Since I lifted her out of that chair like it was instinct. Since I handed her a plate like it meant something.
He laughs like he’s finally confirmed something he’s always suspected.
That I’ve softened.
That I’m no longer the weapon he trained.
He’s wrong.
I glance at him, just once.
And I don’t smile.
This is what he finds entertaining—watching his son cut meat for a woman. He sees weakness where I see necessity. Strategy where he sees submission.
The old wolf mistakes pragmatism for sentiment.
But I’m not him. Never will be. Never want to be.
My children need more than fear. My business needs more than blood. And Bella—
She’s under my protection now. Not because of a contract. Not because of the Bratva code of obligation that’s been hammered into me since birth.
Because I chose it. Because she stepped into this world through my door, and everything that happens to her is my responsibility.
I’ll be goddamned if I let her be hurt again. Let any of them be hurt.
My father sees me staring and raises his glass. A concession. Or a challenge. With him, they’re often the same.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says, but the ghost of that laugh lingers in his eyes. “You remind me of myself, once.”
“I doubt that.”
His mouth quirks. “Your mother would disagree.”
I glance at Yelena, who’s studying the table like it contains state secrets.
Alya, oblivious to the undercurrents, beams at her grandfather.
“ Dedushka ! You should laugh more. Your face looks prettier.”
If anyone else had dared suggest Anatoly Belov should be “prettier,” they’d be feeding fish in the Pacific by dawn. But Alya—she gets away with it.
My father actually winks at her.
“This is fun,” she says, stabbing her fork triumphantly into a piece of duck. “I love family dinner!”