60. Chapter 60
60
Konstantin
E leven days. Two hundred and sixty-four hours.
That’s how long it’s been since I haven’t stepped foot near her since the kiss—even though we live on the same damn floor.
Julian and Lila Marquez moved in days ago. I’ve had every reason to go home. To check on them. To show my face like I give a damn.
Instead, I’ve given myself a rotating door of excuses—late meetings, overnight site checks, strategy calls that could’ve been emails. Anything to keep me out of her orbit.
I even moved my gym sessions an hour earlier. Now, I train before sunrise just to make sure I won’t run into her in the hallway.
Doesn’t stop me from glancing at her door every damn morning like some idiot. The door’s always closed. Always silent.
And I tell myself that’s good.
That it’s better this way.
Not because I don’t want to. Because I’m not stupid.
I’ve built an empire on control. Precision. Strategy. I don’t let personal distractions fuck with that.
And yet—
Every time I close my eyes, I see her. Bella, standing under that goddamn streetlamp with salsa on her cheek and fire in her eyes. And then that fucking kiss—
A mistake. A goddamn glitch in the system.
My jaw tightens as I lean back in the leather chair, staring out at the city. From up here, everything looks clean. Manageable. No chaos, no surprises.
Except her.
It’s been over a week. I haven’t seen her. Haven’t touched her. Not since I pulled away like a coward with something to lose. I miss the kids, yeah. But I need this space. I need the distance. The succession is close. Whispers have already started. The vultures are circling. I can’t afford to be distracted by blue eyes and soft fucking sighs.
The intercom clicks.
“Mr. Belov,” Galina’s voice, dry as ever. Efficient to the point of robotic. “I tried. I really did.”
I turn slightly in my chair, already sensing the storm.
“Who?”
The door opens before she answers. Of course.
Tatiana walks in like she still owns the fucking empire. Crimson coat, sharp heels, perfect blowout. All that elegance draped over poison.
Galina appears behind her, exasperated. Her narrowed eyes say it all: “This fucking woman is insane!”
“It’s fine, Galina,” I say. “You can go.”
She nods once, shuts the door with the kind of precision that says she’s mentally stabbing Tatiana with a letter opener.
“Nice fortress,” Tatiana purrs, glancing around the office like she’s inspecting an art exhibit she finds unimpressive. “Does it come with shackles? Or is that just reserved for my son?”
Ah. There it is.
“Filipp’s exactly where he needs to be,” I say calmly, steepling my fingers. “Istanbul is generous, considering what he did.”
She laughs once, bitter. “He was provoked.”
“He was stupid.”
“You’re punishing him for being my son.”
“No. I’m punishing you for being an idiot.”
Her nostrils flare. She crosses the room like she owns the floor beneath her, stopping just short of my desk.
“You think you’ve won,” she says. “But this circus with the girl? Bella? It won’t last. You paid her to marry you, didn’t you? Everyone knows. The Pakhan’s golden boy can’t even get a woman without a contract.”
I don’t flinch. But something behind my ribs shifts.
“You’re lucky,” I say softly, “that my father still has some shred of mercy left in him. Because if it were up to me, you’d be rotting somewhere cold and unmarked.”
She tilts her head, mocking curiosity. “Because of Bella? Or because you know I know the truth?”
“Touch her again, or anyone connected to me, and I won’t blink. Family or not. That protection ends today.”
Silence stretches.
Then—
She smiles.
Contempt. Pure, uncut.
“You still think this is about power,” she whispers. “You’re playing checkers in a game that was never about the board.”
I stand.
The skyline frames us. King and snake.
“Walk out now, Tatiana.”
She turns, slow and calculated. But at the door, she pauses.
“I’ll enjoy watching how long you keep pretending this little happy-family fantasy of yours isn’t going to explode in your face,” she says with a crooked smile. “Tick-tock.”
The door clicks shut.
I pull out my phone and dial.
Oleg answers on the third ring. “Yes, sir.”
“Everything okay at the house?”
I turn back to the window. The skyline looks washed in late noon haze—sun angled low, city pulsing with quiet. The kids would’ve been back from school two hours ago.
That’s the reason I’m calling, I tell myself.
To check on them.
Not her.
Never her.
A pause. Then, wry amusement: “Define okay.”
From the background, a sudden burst of sound explodes through the speaker.
“LEV, THAT’S NOT A LIGHTSABER, THAT’S A brEAD KNIFE!”
Nikolai yells something with theatrical flair—over-enunciated like a stage actor in a fourth-grade play. It sounds like he’s quoting a fantasy movie, sword fights and all. He’s not fluent in anything except drama.
Oleg exhales like a man three seconds from walking into the sea. “They’ve constructed a fort out of dining chairs, pool towels, and—God help us—crystal vases. Julian seems to be their commanding officer.”
I hear Alya yelling for backup. A new voice—female, quick, and defiant—counters with what I assume is Lila’s declaration of her own territory. It sounds like a civil war fought with snacks.
“So yes,” Oleg deadpans. “Domestic tranquility.”
A beat.
“Oh—and someone’s been stealing chocolates from the pantry.”
I blink. “You’re telling me someone’s stealing candy like it’s a Bratva secret drop?”
“Just reporting the facts, sir.”
Before I can roll my eyes, a small voice cuts through the line.
“IT’S BELLA!” Lev’s shout crashes through the speaker. “I saw her sneaking into the pantry at midnight! She took the whole box of those fancy Swiss ones you hide on the top shelf. The ones with the gold wrappers!”
Lev. Gleeful. Loud.
Her name shouldn’t hit like that.
I haven’t seen her in days. Haven’t heard her voice. But hearing it from Lev—like she belongs to the rhythm of the house now, part of the noise, the chaos—
It pulls something tight in my chest.
Laughter spills through the line. Someone shouts about Nerf darts. Chairs drag. A door slams.
And I just… listen.
I’ve never heard my house sound so alive. So completely out of my control.
I close my eyes for a beat. Something loosens in my chest.
“And the others?” I ask.
He pauses, but not long enough.
“Mrs. Belov is doing well. She’s off the crutches today. Dr. Nilsson’s pushing more mobility—resistance and grip coordination.”
Dr. Nilsson . Tall. Athletic build. Dark blond hair that always looks like he just walked off a private clinic ad. Young, confident, the kind of man who makes charm look effortless.
He was there when my father was recovering—every day, calm and composed, like nothing could shake him.
Now he’s near her.
And I hate how fast that gets under my skin.
My teeth grit before I can stop them. I picture his hand on her back, correcting her posture, too close. The kind of professional touch that’s somehow worse.
“Is he—always that hands-on?”
A pause.
“He’s efficient,” Oleg replies. “And married.”
I say nothing.
He continues anyway. “With two toddlers.”
Right.
I nod, like that matters.
Then Oleg shifts tones—just slightly. “There’s something else. The Pakhan’s car has been prepared. He’s heading to La Sirena Cove.”
My jaw locks.
Of course. Her beachside prize. A gift from the days Anatoly still thought with something other than his paranoia.
“He’s meeting Tatiana?”
“That’s the instruction, yes.”
“Do you know who scheduled it?”
“Tatiana herself. Through back channels. Quiet. But not invisible.”
Of course she did.
She’s playing her endgame. Thinking she can charm him into rethinking the line of succession.
Not on my watch.
“Send someone. Quietly. I want eyes on that cove before he arrives.”
“Understood sir.”
I grit my teeth. “ Suka ,” I mutter under my breath.
Tatiana thinks she’s clever—slinking around behind the scenes, playing seductress with a man who once built an empire on fear and flesh. She thinks she still has power. That she can flash a smile and make him forget everything.
Not this time.
She won’t win him back with perfume and nostalgia. Not while I’m breathing.
I end the call with Oleg and toss the phone onto the desk. For a second, I almost call Galina. I almost tell her to get the car ready.
Maybe it’s time I went home.
The screen lights up before I can reach for it. I swipe without thinking.
“Boss,” Timur’s voice crackles through. “Irina’s been reported missing.”
I go still. “How long?”
“Three days.”
I spin from the window, my heart already kicking harder than I want to admit. “And you’re only telling me now?”
“Last confirmed sighting was on the ferry to Oakland. We assumed she was circling back to one of her known safe houses. Then her signal reappeared—briefly—pinging off a private aircraft hangar outside Sonoma. Within six hours, the tracker went dark. Two days later, Milan staff reported her suite untouched since Monday morning.”
I stare at the glass. “How the fuck did she get to Italy with no one seeing her?”
“Our guess? Black flight. No manifest. Someone high-level moved her. And they knew exactly what they were doing.”
My knuckles press white against the edge of the desk.
“Could she have been taken?”
“Unlikely,” Timur says. “Too clean. No signs of struggle. She left on her own.”
A long beat.
“She had help,” I say quietly.
“That’s our guess.”
The line hums between us.
“Find her.”
“Already moving. But, boss—whoever helped her vanish? They knew what they were doing.”
My pulse drums low and hard. I stare out at the skyline, but I’m not really seeing it anymore.
Irina’s gone.
And someone opened the door for her.