68. Chapter 68
68
Konstantin
I swirl the Sancerre in my glass, the wine’s crisp edge a faint anchor against the chaos unfolding before me. The dining table is a battlefield of indulgence—grilled sea bass with lemon-caper sauce for us, its flakes glistening beside wild mushroom risotto and roasted heirloom vegetables, their colors vivid as a painter’s palette. For the kids, Kobe beef sliders, each topped with a pickle spear, sit next to truffle-dusted fries and fruit skewers shaped like stars. Sourdough loaves, their crusts crackling, flank herb-infused olive oil that shimmers in porcelain bowls.
Perfect. Controlled. Everything I demand.
Everything else? A goddamn circus.
Elena’s holding court at the table’s far end, her fork a conductor’s baton as she spins another outrageous tale.
“So, there I am at this celebrity chef’s house for my magazine interview,” she says, her dark eyes sparking, “and he opens the door in nothing but an apron that says ‘Kiss the Cook’ and a grin that’s definitely not about food.”
Julian snorts into his water, nearly choking, while Bella’s fork freezes midair.
“Elena,” she hisses, her eyes darting to Lev and Nikolai, who are stacking fries into a wobbling tower, and Alya, who’s arranging her fruit skewers into a meticulous rainbow.
“Oh, right,” Elena says, pivoting with a con artist’s grace. “PG version: some folks don’t get professional boundaries, so I interviewed his assistant instead. Made a chocolate soufflé that’d make you cry happy tears.”
Arseny’s lips twitch, his eyes crinkling. My strategist, who’s stared down rival Bratva captains without flinching, is undone by this woman who smells like patchouli and trouble. He leans forward, his wavy hair catching the light, and I swear he’s imagining her in ways that’d make my security team blush.
My right-hand man, reduced to a schoolboy, I think, gripping my glass tighter. What the hell is this woman doing to my house?
And it’s not just Elena. It’s Bella’s whole world—her family, her craziness—bleeding into mine like ink into water.
Julian’s teaching Lev how to flip a butter knife, both of them laughing when it clatters to the table. Lila’s braiding Alya’s curls, the two giggling over some TikTok dance nonsense. Nikolai, usually brooding, is chuckling as Elena mimes a soufflé exploding, her hands flailing dramatically. This isn’t my life. My life is steel and blood, deals in shadowed rooms, enemies buried before they blink. But this—this warmth, this noise—is sinking into me, and I can’t stop it. I don’t want to.
Why did I let this happen?
My gaze slides to Bella. She’s beside me, her white blouse clinging just enough to make my pulse kick. Her blue eyes flicker with amusement, but there’s a pallor to her skin, a tension in her jaw that says her smile’s a lie.
Elena stretches her arms overhead, and the hem of her shirt rides up, exposing a sliver of tanned skin.
“Alright, I need to walk off this lunch before I explode. Or commit another felony.” She pushes back from the table and stands, eyeing the sprawling mansion around her. “This place is like Versailles and Dracula’s castle had a baby.”
Arseny stands, rolling his sleeves back with a lazy grin. “Want a tour?”
Elena arches a brow. “Oh? And what’s on the tour? Dungeons? Torture chambers? Se—”
“Elena!” Bella laughs, flicking a bread crust at her. It bounces off Elena’s forehead, and the kids dissolve into giggles. I almost laugh, too, but the sound dies in my throat.
Elena rubs her forehead dramatically, eyes twinkling as she looks at Bella.
“Ow. Assault by bread crust. That’s a new low, Bella.”
Bella shakes her head, rolling her eyes. “And you deserved it.”
Elena lifts her hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. I was going to say skeletons . You know, the kind that rattle in closets.”
“I could show you a few hidden corners. Might even have a secret passage or two.” Arseny steps closer.
Elena cocks her head, pretending to ponder it. “Hmm. Hidden corners. Skeletons. Sounds like my kind of party.”
Bella throws another bread crust, and this time, Elena dodges, hands up, laughing. “Hey! That was unprovoked!”
Bella snorts. “Consider it a warning shot.”
Arseny trails after her, looking both enthralled and like he’s about to pass out.
They’re going to fuck in my guest wing. It’s as obvious as a neon sign. I can practically see Arseny mentally calculating the fastest route to the east bedroom suite. Four minutes, if they take the service staircase. Not that I’m timing them.
The kids finish eating with the urgency of wild animals at a feast. Plates clatter as they push away from the table, practically sprinting toward the pool.
“Swimming!” Lev shouts, grabbing Julian by the wrist and dragging him along.
“Cannonball contest!” Nikolai bellows, darting ahead.
“I want to wear the purple swimsuit today,” Alya announces, grabbing Lila’s hand. “The one with the sparkles.”
“Race you to the pool house,” Lila challenges with a grin. “Last one there has to wear the ugly flamingo floaties.”
“No fair! Your legs are longer!” Alya protests, but she’s already pulling Lila toward the door, both of them giggling.
Lila and Alya run after the boys, their laughter trailing behind like bells.
My fierce, independent daughter—who trusts no one—is clinging to Bella’s sister like she’s found a long-lost friend.
When did this happen? When did my orderly household transform into this… family?
The word sits uncomfortably in my mind. Family. Not duty, not legacy, not empire.
Family.
A real one.
And just as Alya reaches the doorway, she stops, turning back to us. “Mommy! Do you want to swim with us?”
My jaw locks. Did she just…?
Mommy…
Bella’s hand twitches on the table. Her eyes dart to mine, then back to Alya.
“Not right now, sweetheart,” she says softly. “You go ahead.”
Alya beams, oblivious to the tension she just dropped like a live grenade. “Okay!” And she’s off, leaving Bella and me alone in the sudden silence.
“Since when?” I demand, my voice low, dangerous.
Bella swallows, fingers fidgeting with her napkin. “She… just started calling me that. Earlier.”
“Right.” My chest is tight. My pulse pounds at my temples. This is what I wanted, isn’t it? Family. Stability. A wife to keep my children close. But this? This is more. This is… too much.
“Konstantin,” she says, her voice soft but firm. “We need to talk.”
Before I can respond, footsteps pound down the hallway—hard, urgent. Not the children. Arseny bursts through the doorway, face grim, phone in hand. Not the face of a man who just slipped away for a liaison.
“Boss. Code Red.”
I’m on my feet instantly, wine forgotten. “What?”
“Someone placed a bomb at St. Nicholas Cathedral. Detonated twenty minutes ago.” His voice is clinical, detached, the way it gets when he’s processing catastrophe. “North wing destroyed. Bell tower collapsed. FBI and police are on scene.”
Yob tvoyu mat.
The rage that floods through me is ice-cold, clarifying. Calculations spin through my mind—timing, suspects, implications. Four days before the ceremony. The cathedral where five generations of Pakhan have taken their oaths. The message couldn’t be clearer.
“Evacuate the children to the safe house,” I order, already pulling out my phone. “Now.”
“Konstantin, what’s happening?” Bella’s voice cuts through the chaos like a thread pulled taut. She’s standing there, eyes wide, face pale as the color drains away. Fear tightens her features, and for a moment, I hate that she’s seen me like this— jaw clenched, eyes blazing, barely holding onto the leash of my fury.
I step toward her, forcing my voice to stay level. “Listen to me. You’re going to the safe house.”
Her brows knit together, confusion creasing her forehead. “Safe house? What— Where?”
Before I can answer, Viktor and Oleg rush in, moving like twin hurricanes.
Viktor’s hand clamps around Bella’s arm, firm but not harsh. “Pack what you need. Now.”
Oleg is already on his earpiece, barking orders to the security team. “Deploy secondary unit. Full lockdown. We’re moving her now.”
Bella’s gaze snaps back to me, panic flaring in her eyes. “Konstantin—”
“Go,” I say, harder than I mean to, but there’s no time to explain. “Take the kids. Pack for a few days. Don’t ask questions.”
“Days?” she echoes, the word catching in her throat.
Viktor tugs her gently but insistently toward the hallway, and she stumbles along, her head twisting over her shoulder to look at me. I force myself to turn away because if I don’t, I’ll follow her. And I can’t. Not now.
Someone wants to play games with me. Fine.
I’ll show them how a Belov plays to win.