57. Chapter 57
57
Bella
I ’ve forgotten how to breathe.
That’s the only explanation for the tightness in my chest as I pause at the entrance to the garden. My crutches dig into my armpits, but I barely notice the pain—not when he’s sitting there, backlit by hanging lanterns that make his profile look like it’s been cut from granite. He hasn’t seen me yet. He’s leaning forward, one forearm braced on the table as he watches Lev unwrap something. His sleeves are rolled to the elbows. His hair is slightly mussed, like he’s been running his hands through it.
Eight days shouldn’t do this to a person. It’s ridiculous. It’s hormonal. It’s—
He looks up.
Our eyes lock across thirty feet of herb gardens and culinary stations.
My stomach does a somersault, followed by a double pike with extra points for nausea.
“Mrs. Belov,” Anya murmurs beside me, “are you alright? You’ve gone pale.”
What a question. No, I’m not alright. I’m pregnant with a mafia boss’s baby that his mother wants to keep secret. while recovering from a kidnapping and car crash and I might be slightly in love with my fake husband who hasn’t called for eight days.
“Just hungry,” I whisper.
Alya spots me next and practically launches from her chair. “Bella! Papa brought us presents! Look!”
She waves a massive LEGO set in the air like it’s the Olympic torch.
The commotion draws everyone’s attention. Nikolai offers a polite nod. Lev’s eyes narrow slightly, like he’s assessing my condition from across the room. And Konstantin—
He stands.
In one fluid motion, he rises and moves toward me. Not walking. Stalking. Like a man with purpose.
I grip my crutches tighter. Remind myself to breathe. In. Out. Don’t think about the test hidden in your room. Don’t think about the cells dividing inside you. Don’t—
“Bella.”
His voice is lower than I remember. Richer. He stops just short of me, close enough that I can smell his cologne. My traitorous heart skips.
“You look…” he pauses, eyes tracking from my face down to my flat shoes and back up, lingering just briefly on the soft lavender wrap dress Anya helped me into, “healthy.”
Healthy? Healthy? Eight days, and he goes with healthy ?
“You look jet-lagged,” I reply. The snark flows automatically.
His mouth twitches. “May I?”
Before I can answer, he’s taking my elbow, supporting my weight on one side as Anya silently retreats. Heat radiates from his palm through the thin fabric of my sleeve.
“I can walk,” I protest weakly.
“I know.” His grip doesn’t loosen. “But these stone paths are uneven. I wouldn’t want to undo Dr. Katya’s work.”
The name hits like a hammer.
Dr. Katya.
I swallow. Hard. Does he know?
Has Yelena told him?
No. His eyes are calm. Focused. If he knew I was carrying what might be the next heir to his criminal empire, he wouldn’t be this… steady. Right?
He guides me forward, careful with each step I take. Every shift of my weight sends tiny shockwaves up my leg, but his arm is firm, warm, like scaffolding holding up a building I no longer trust.
“So,” he says casually, “I saw your artwork.”
Oh God. The butterfly.
I tilt my head toward him. “You mean the one that looks like a haunted spaghetti monster mated with a taxidermized bat?”
He smirks. “Alya says it’s a butterfly.”
“She’s loyal.”
“She also told me you insisted on drawing the antennae last because you needed ‘emotional closure.’”
I groan. “I was under duress.”
“You were high on children’s markers and six juice boxes.”
I laugh. Damn it. I laugh. And it feels good , which is annoying.
But then he keeps going. “Honestly, I liked it. Had a sort of… unhinged elegance.”
“Wow. That’s how I describe my entire personality.”
He chuckles, and I feel it like a pull—low in my gut, curling inward. I hate how much I want to lean into him. I hate how good he smells. How easy it is to forget, for a few stolen seconds, that my body is no longer just mine.
We reach the table. His arm doesn’t drop away immediately, like he’s reluctant to let go. Like part of him still feels the shape of me pressed to his side.
The kids are still lit up. Lev’s practically vibrating with excitement, showing off his new board game. Nikolai’s flipping through a book, half-reading, half-listening. Alya’s curled under a throw blanket now draped across the back of her chair, a board game instruction manual stretched across her lap like it personally offended her.
Konstantin lowers himself beside her, taking the card from her hands.
“You missed this step,” he murmurs, pointing gently to the bottom. “You have to build the trading post before you can collect the magic keys.”
She frowns at it. “But the raccoon wizard is already on the bridge.”
He looks solemn. “Even raccoon wizards need structure.”
I almost snort.
Before he can say anything else, Nikolai leans over and nudges him with his elbow. “I’ll help her. You go sit with Bella.”
Konstantin pauses just long enough to glance between them. Then he reaches out and places a hand on Nikolai’s shoulder. It’s subtle. Barely a squeeze.
“Thank you, son.”
Son.
It shouldn’t make me ache the way it does—but it does.
Because if he loves them like this, what would it mean for ours ?
Would he hold them like that? Tuck them in? Bring home books and tiny toy swords and tell them bedtime stories in Russian?
Would he want this baby?
I’m not ready to ask. But the question is burning a hole in my lungs.
“Would you like to sit?” he asks again, turning back to me.
“My ankle would like tacos,” I deadpan.
Without missing a beat, he pivots toward the nearest chef station. “Tacos.”
The man in a crisp black jacket blinks like he just got hit with a pop quiz. “Ah— Mr. Belov, I’m very sorry, but tacos are not on the dinner rotation tonight. We’ve prepared the seasonal—”
Konstantin lifts a hand, calm but firm. “I didn’t ask for the seasonal menu. I asked for tacos.”
There’s a pause.
A long one.
The chef’s eyes flick to me. Then back to Konstantin. God, he must hate me. I smile politely, like a woman who definitely didn’t derail a Michelin menu because she’s craving corn tortillas and prenatal comfort.
“No,” I say quickly, waving a hand. “I mean, I would like tacos… outside. As in, not here. Somewhere with bad lighting and sticky floors. Somewhere that doesn’t smell like twelve-dollar rosemary smoke.”
Konstantin turns to me, a brow raised.
I shrug. “It’s been days. Weeks. I want fresh air. Loud strangers. Grease. A drive. A bench with questionable gum stuck underneath. You know—freedom.”
Alya perks up. “Papa, you should drive Bella! She hasn’t gone anywhere since she got here.”
Lev immediately joins in. “Yeah! We’ll be okay.”
Nikolai nods.
Konstantin straightens beside me, his hand warm at the small of my back. His eyes flick to the kids, then to Oleg.
Then, calmly, like it’s not a declaration but a fact already decided, he says, “Okay. Tacos it is.”
“Really?” I ask, blinking up at him. “We’re actually leaving?”
He doesn’t answer with words. Just lifts his chin toward one of the waiting staff and gives a subtle nod. A man immediately begins pulling keys from his pocket like this happens all the time.
I catch it then—the tiniest crease at the corner of Konstantin’s brow.
Not quite worry. Not regret. Something more complicated.
Something like: “I see the purple-yellow marks beneath.”
Something like: “I should’ve protected you then. And I didn’t.”
Like, for one breath, he hates that he wasn’t there. And maybe… maybe he just wants to be here now.
By my side.
He leans closer. “Can you turn without help?”
“I’m injured, not helpless,” I mutter, already regretting how defensive that sounds.
His mouth tilts just slightly. “Didn’t say you were. But I know better than to underestimate uneven stone and stubborn women.”
Before I can fire back, he’s already helping me pivot with gentle precision—like I’m something valuable and breakable but never once making me feel like I am.
“Okay,” he says, turning to the kids. “Eat your dinner. No running. No fighting. No turning utensils into medieval weapons.”
Alya grins. “What about forks?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Anything sharper than a breadstick is off-limits.”
Lev snorts into his plate. Nikolai just nods like he’s heard this speech before.
“Bye, kids,” I sing-song, waving one crutch in the air like a baton. “Don’t burn the place down. Or do, if the risotto’s dry.”
Lev gives me a thumbs-up, as if arson is a valid dinner option. Alya’s already back to arguing with her raccoon wizard. Nikolai doesn’t even look up.
I try to play it cool—like I don’t feel the heat of Konstantin’s body right next to mine or the way his hand stays firmly at my back, guiding me like I’m not just hobbling but teetering on the edge of something else entirely.
Konstantin gently guides me toward the path, careful to avoid the roughest patches of stone. The garden lights glow soft amber, but my pulse is racing like we’re making a prison break.
I glance back over my shoulder.
And, of course—there she is.
Yelena. Perfectly still. Perfectly dressed. Perfectly terrifying.
“Leaving?” she asks, smooth as silk stretched over barbed wire.
“Yes,” Konstantin answers without pause, without looking at her.
Wow. That was awkward.
“Bella wants tacos!” Alya yells from her seat.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had one,” Lev says, wide-eyed.
“Me, too,” Alya chimes in, now clearly interested in starting a revolution.
“I…” My voice catches. I clear my throat. “I just want to get out. And I crave some tacos. That’s it.”
Yelena’s eyes flick to me.
My stomach. My face. Back to my stomach.
Like she’s mentally outlining blueprints for a threat she hasn’t confirmed yet.
I grip my crutch tighter and keep moving.
Because if I stand still too long, I might actually blurt it out.
That I’m pregnant.
That I overheard everything.
And that I’m scared out of my goddamn mind.