55. Chapter 55
55
Konstantin
T he city rolls past in a blur of light and glass, but I’m not looking at any of it. My phone is pressed to my ear, Oleg’s voice crisp over the line.
Eight days. It’s been eight fucking days since I left for New York, and I haven’t stopped thinking about her once. Not in meetings, not in the hours I spent sitting across from men who’d slit each other’s throats over a bad deal, not even when that Italian prick tried to pull leverage on our contract with Belmont Tower. She’s been in my head like a damn splinter.
“Everything is ready,” he says. “The two rooms will be situated on the west wing, across from Alya’s. I had the team redecorate to match what you sent. Posters, the beanbag, the gaming console—done. The girl’s room has a canopy bed and a skylight. No pink.”
I nod even though he can’t see me. “Good.”
There’s a pause, then, “She’s going to lose her mind when she sees this.”
Yeah. That’s the point.
“I want the hallway cameras repositioned,” I tell Oleg. “Angle them slightly downward. I don’t want the kids catching a lens straight to the face every time they walk to the bathroom.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And make sure the garden sensors are on a separate alert loop. Lila likes to sneak out. I want a heads-up, not a full perimeter lockdown.”
“Understood.”
I pause. “How’s my father?”
“He’s fine. Spends most mornings with Alya. She makes him play tea party. He pretends it’s strategy training.”
A small flicker hits the corner of my mouth. Barely.
“Let him.”
I end the call and slide the phone into my coat pocket.
Now I feel it—that familiar stare drilling into the side of my skull.
I look up at the rearview mirror.
Arseny doesn’t bother pretending. He’s watching me like I just walked in wearing a ring pop and announced I believe in soulmates.
He lets out a long, dramatic whistle. “Look at you. Personal requests. Custom furniture. Is that what this is now? Domestic warlord chic?”
“Shut up.”
“Can’t. I’m too busy processing the image of you picking out canopy beds. Did you test mattresses, too, or was that outsourced?”
He wouldn’t believe me if I said I cross-referenced three different console models because Bella mentioned her brother used to game after school to “blow off steam.” Or that I vetoed pink just in case Lila takes after her and hates anything that looks like effort.
“She’s been good with the kids,” I say instead. Flat. Simple.
Arseny scoffs. “Is this… nesting? Are we nesting now, boss?”
I look up. Meet his eyes in the mirror.
“Learn from Timur, will you? Mudak. ”
Arseny grins like it’s a badge of honor. Smirk still on his face as he finally turns back to the road, but I can tell he’s not done. Just pacing himself.
Next to him, Timur might as well be running an international control tower from the front seat. Tablet open, phone pressed to his ear, another device buzzing against his thigh. He ends one call, types something with his left hand, answers another—barely blinking. Calm. Efficient. Inhuman.
“You get a report from Viktor?” I ask.
Timur doesn’t answer immediately.
He finishes typing, sets the tablet down with precision, then turns halfway in his seat.
“Tatiana’s been busy,” he says. “Victor tracked three brunches with Sidorov’s widow. A private dinner with the Morozov delegation. And last week, she hosted a fundraiser that just happened to include two Pakhan candidates from Kyiv and one from Bucharest.”
My jaw ticks. “She’s aligning.”
“She’s planning.”
Same thing.
Arseny exhales, arms crossed. “I hope you know the moment she thinks you’re distracted—she’ll strike.”
I glance down at the phone, thumb hovering over the screen. “Let her.”
Arseny chuckles again. “You’re awfully calm for a man walking into war.”
I finally look up, eyes locking with his through the mirror. “That’s because I already know how it ends.”
And it doesn’t end with negotiations.
It ends with leverage. With blood.
We’ve already collected enough to bring the axe down—wire transfers rerouted through fake charities Tatiana “sponsors,” unexplained shipments rerouted from Belov warehouses in Novorossiysk, a bribed customs official in Bucharest with a six-digit payout tied to Filipp’s shell account.
It’s not just betrayal.
It’s treason.
But for now, we wait. For my father’s sake. For appearance’s sake.
But make no mistake—they will pay.
First, for daring to touch what’s mine.
For Bella.
I lean back into the leather, eyes still on the road ahead, but my voice cuts through the quiet.
“Start with the museum.”
Timur doesn’t flinch. “You want it audited?”
“No. I want it defunded. Discredited. Then burned to the ground.”
A pause. Even Arseny glances over his shoulder.
Timur nods once, already typing. “Her name’s all over the donor records. Last month’s gala. Press coverage.”
“Exactly.”
Let her watch it turn to ash. Let her scramble for words when the Council starts asking questions.
I tap the armrest once.
“Filipp?”
Timur’s already ahead of me. “Still here. West Coast. Rented estate in Napa under a dummy LLC. No full security detail. Just two locals and a driver.”
I nod once.
“He thinks we’ve let it go,” Timur adds.
“Then don’t warn him otherwise.”
Another line typed. Another order moving silently into motion.
“Blackout van. Hood. Dump him under the Istanbul site,” I say. “Three days. No light. No noise. No questions.”
“And after?” Arseny asks.
“Let him walk.”
Arseny exhales, low and long. “You really are your father’s son.”
I glance at him once. “No.” Then back to the window. “That’s the difference. My father would’ve killed them.”
It’s almost dinner—less than an hour, judging by the smells coming in from the east wing. Roasted garlic, thyme, the buttery heat of something rich slow-cooking. The kind of food Alya will say is “too grown-up” before demanding ice cream.
“Sir,” Oleg steps beside me.
“The children?”
“With the Pakhan . Miss Alya’s room.”
I nod once. Hand him my coat. “And my… wife?”
The slightest hesitation. “In her quarters, sir.”
Interesting.
I move through the west wing, my footsteps silent against the marble. The halls feel emptier than I remember, the paintings starker on the walls. Eight days of silence, and now the house itself seems to be holding its breath.
Voices filter down the hallway from Alya’s room. My father’s low rumble. The twins’ murmurs. Alya’s high, bright chatter. The sound loosens something in my chest that’s been tight since New York.
I don’t knock.
The door swings open to reveal a tableau that stops me cold.
My father stands in the center of the room, one hand holding Alya’s small fingers, the other gesturing toward what appears to be… artwork. Framed butterflies, messily painted and sparkling with enough glitter to sink a small boat. The twins hover nearby, Lev sprawled across Alya’s pink bedspread, Nikolai standing straight-backed beside my father, hands clasped behind him in unconscious mimicry.
“Paaaapa!” Alya spots me first. She wrenches free from my father and launches herself across the room.
I catch her with practiced ease, the familiar weight of her settling against my chest. She smells like paint and strawberry shampoo.
“You didn’t tell us you were coming home,” she accuses, face buried in my neck.
“I like surprises,” I say, meeting my father’s gaze over her head.
Anatoly Belov looks older today. Less iron. More bone. The kind of tired that doesn’t come from age—it comes from deciding who you’ll leave behind when you finally step down.
“Konstantin.” He nods once. His eyes flick to Timur and Arseny waiting in the hallway, then back to me with a question.
“A successful trip,” I answer, setting Alya down. “We have what we need.”
Lev rolls off the bed, ambling over with the forced casualness of a teenager who wants to appear unaffected by his father’s return.
“Did you bring us anything?”
My mouth twitches. “Perhaps.”
“He definitely did,” Nikolai says, watching my face. Always observing, that one. “He’s got that look.”
“What look?” I ask.
“The one where you’re trying not to smile,” Alya informs me, tugging at my sleeve. “Papa, look at my paintings. Bella helped me.”
Something tightens in my stomach at the name. “Did she?”
“Yes, but hers were terrible. Like really, really bad.” Alya pulls me toward the framed butterflies. “She used too much water, and the wings melted. But I fixed it with glitter.”
“Very resourceful,” I murmur, studying the artwork. One butterfly is clearly Alya’s—precise, vibrant, every line carefully controlled. The other is a chaotic mess of blues and reds, rescued only by strategic application of silver glitter.
“Bella’s hands were shaking,” Alya continues blithely. “Mariya said she looked like someone was chasing her with wolves.”
My eyes snap to my father’s. He gives an almost imperceptible shrug.
“Nikolai,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. “Take your sister downstairs. I brought the books you wanted. They’re in my briefcase in the study.”
Nikolai straightens immediately. “Come on, Alya. Let’s see what Papa brought us.”
“But I want to stay and—”
“If you come now,” Nikolai interrupts smoothly, “I’ll let you open my presents, too.”
Alya narrows her eyes, weighing her options. “Fine. But I get to choose which one I want.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Half of them.”
“One.”
“Two.”
“We’ll negotiate en route.” Nikolai sighs, offering his hand. Alya grabs it, already chattering about which presents she plans to claim.
Lev hesitates by the door. “Should I go, too?”
I study him for a moment. Lev, with his unreadable eyes and quick mind. Almost a man now, though I still see the small boy who used to crawl into my bed during thunderstorms.
“Stay,” I decide.
He closes the door behind Nikolai and Alya, then leans against it, hands in his pockets, trying to look at ease and failing.
My father moves to the window, gazing out at the garden below. “You spoke with the Elder Council.”
Not a question.
“Yes.”
“And they want an answer.”
“By the end of the week.” I join him at the window. In the garden below, I can see the wrought-iron table where I suspect my wife painted butterflies with my daughter. The thought creates an unexpected ache. “The situation has become… precarious.”
“Gregor is making his move,” my father says quietly.
“Yes.”
“And the others?”
“Divided.” I turn to face him. “They want leadership, Father. Decisive action. The old ways are no longer sustainable.”
Lev shifts by the door, and I’m reminded of his presence. This wasn’t how I planned this conversation. Not with my son in the room, hearing things no child should hear, even one raised in our world. But I also know better than to dismiss him now. He’d only listen at the door.
My father seems to reach the same conclusion. He sits heavily in Alya’s desk chair, suddenly looking every one of his seventy-three years.
“I’ve come to a decision,” he says, his voice dropping into the register he uses only for matters of grave importance. The voice that once sentenced men to death with a single word. “My last as Pakhan. ”
The air in the room thickens. Even Lev straightens from his casual slouch.
“You will succeed me, Konstantin.” My father’s eyes, still sharp as ever, fix on mine. “The Council will need to vote, but my endorsement will carry enough weight.”
The moment stretches between us, taut as wire. It’s what I’ve been preparing for since I was younger than Lev. What was always meant to be. And yet—
“There’s a condition,” he adds.
Of course there is. With my father, there’s always a condition.
“I’m listening.”
“Filipp and Tatiana.” He says the names like they’re weights being placed on a scale. “They will have positions of honor. Protected. Respected.”
Something cold slides through me. “After what they did?”
Anatoly gives me a look. The kind that says he knows . The kidnappings. The side deals. The way Tatiana moves in shadows and Filipp plays both sides like it’s a sport.
My father was never stupid—not even in a coma. He knows everything. But he’s grown soft. Weak. In my opinion, that’s the same thing.
“They’re family.” His tone hardens. “And they deserve a place. Not at the top, perhaps. But a place.”
Lev is watching us both, his face carefully blank. But I can see the wheels turning. He’s piecing it together, what’s being said and what isn’t. The politics behind the platitudes.
“Filipp has been making deals with the Chechens,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Tatiana knew and said nothing.”
“I’m aware.” My father’s gaze doesn’t waver. “They will answer for that. But not with blood. Not with exile. They remain part of this family. Part of our family.”
The emphasis isn’t lost on me. A reminder of what happens to those who turn against their own. A warning.
I weigh my options, aware of Lev watching. Aware of what this teaches him about power and compromise. About family.
“If they accept their place,” I say finally. “If they understand the consequences of stepping out of line again.”
My father nods once, satisfied. “They will.”
Lev shifts again by the door. I acknowledge him with a glance, noting how his expression has changed. No longer casual teenage indifference—his jaw is set, eyes watchful. He understands exactly what’s being discussed. What it means for our family. For him.
For both my sons.
The implications settle like a weight in my chest. Succession. Legacy. The burden that will eventually pass not just to me but to one of them. Nikolai, with his tactical mind and quiet observation. Lev, with his fierce loyalty and quick instincts. One day, a choice will have to be made.
And choices in our world are never without casualties.
But I won’t let those casualties be my sons.
Not between them.
Not like it was between me and Filipp.
Not like it nearly was between me and my father.
Before the silence can stretch too far, there’s a knock on the door.
Oleg’s voice comes through, firm and efficient. “Dinner is ready.”
My father rises slowly, the way men do when pain has become part of the routine. He presses one hand to the desk as he stands, his breath caught just slightly before he releases it.
Then he looks at Lev.
My son straightens under his gaze.
“You heard a lot today,” Anatoly says. “More than most boys your age.”
Lev doesn’t flinch. He nods once.
He walks toward the door, then stops beside me.
There’s a long pause—one that feels like it’s carrying more weight than all the words we’ve said so far.
Then, his voice—low, meant only for me.
“Many things, son.” His eyes are on the wall now, on the butterflies. “You think there’s a clear line between power and family. There isn’t. There never was.”
I don’t speak.
He turns his head just enough to meet my gaze.
“But that’s how it should be. A father doesn’t burden his son with everything. Not until he has no choice.”