69. Chapter 69
69
Konstantin
“ D etails,” I snap, my boots echoing on the marble floor as we head to the security room.
“Single device, high yield,” Arseny says, his voice low, precise. “Detonated in the nave at dawn. No casualties—too early for worshippers—but the structure’s compromised. FBI’s calling it terrorism, but our sources say Bratva signatures. Someone wanted it personal.”
“Personal,” I growl, my mind racing. The cathedral’s where my father crowned me his heir, where I was to take the Pakhan oath. Destroying it isn’t just sabotage—it’s a message loud and clear. War’s just started, nothing subtle about it.
The security room hums with tension—screens flickering with data, men moving with smooth precision. Timur stands at the center console, his face bathed in blue light as he navigates through surveillance footage.
“Updates on my family?” I ask, the word “family” still strange on my tongue. Not just my children now. Bella. Her siblings. All of them—my responsibility.
Oleg steps forward, ramrod straight as always. “Mrs. Belov and the children are being escorted to the helipad. The first transport leaves in eight minutes.”
Viktor’s voice crackles through the comms. “We have three birds ready. Package Alpha in motion.”
Package Alpha. My children. Bella. The phrases reduce them to tactical objectives; safer that way. Less emotional. Less distracting.
I don’t feel safer.
“Show me what you found,” I tell Timur, leaning over the console.
He pulls up a series of images—security footage from St. Nicholas, traffic cameras, satellite feeds. “Bomber entered at 0417 hours. Professional. Knew the blind spots.” He taps the screen, freezing on a grainy figure. “But made one mistake.”
The image enhances, revealing a partial face—Slavic features, cold eyes, a distinctive scar along the jawline.
“Yevgeny Renko,” Arseny says, his voice hardening. “Mikhail Volkov’s cleaner.”
My blood runs cold. Confirmation. The Volkovs have made their move.
“We tracked his movements,” Timur continues, flipping through more images. “Arrived from Moscow three days ago under an alias. Stayed at the Ritz-Carlton. Made contact with this woman—”
The screen shows a blonde entering Renko’s hotel room. Even with her face partially obscured, I recognize her.
“Katrina,” I say. “Tatiana’s personal assistant.”
Arseny lets out a low whistle. “So much for plausible deniability.”
“That’s not all,” Timur says, pulling up bank records. “Six million transferred from Tatiana’s Cayman account to a shell corporation owned by Mikhail Volkov. Timestamped forty-eight hours before the bombing.”
The rage that floods through me is cold, precise—a blade sharpened to perfection rather than the wild heat of uncontrolled fury. This is better. This I can use.
“She’s not even trying to hide it,” Arseny observes.
“Because she thinks she’s already won,” I reply, straightening. “She thinks this buys her enough time to move against me before the succession.”
The door slams open behind us. My father strides in, Dimitri flanking him like a shadow. Anatoly Belov, still imposing at his seventies his silver hair slicked back, his eyes—the same gray-blue as mine—alight with barely contained rage.
“She’s gone,” he announces without preamble. “Emptied her personal accounts. Disabled her trackers. Her jet filed a flight plan for Geneva an hour ago.”
The confirmation twists in my gut like a knife. Tatiana has finally shown her hand—not that there was much doubt after the bombing.
“Not just Geneva,” Dimitri adds, sliding a tablet across the console to me. “Look at the money trail.”
I scan the document, jaw tightening with each line. Twelve million to numbered accounts in the Caymans. Eight million converted to cryptocurrency. Properties liquidated across three continents. All within the last twenty-four hours.
“She’s been planning this for months,” I say, the realization settling like ice in my veins.
My father’s face is a mask of cold fury. In all my thirty-nine years, I’ve rarely seen him truly caught off guard. Today, he looks… betrayed. It would be almost pitiful if it weren’t so dangerous.
“I underestimated her,” he admits, the words seemingly torn from him. “We all did.”
Arseny gives my father a sideways glance, careful to keep his expression neutral. We both know what Anatoly isn’t saying—that we warned him for years about Tatiana, that her ambitions were always greater than her loyalty.
“What matters now is containing the damage,” I say, redirecting. “The cathedral was just the opening move. They’ll come for us next.”
“The children?” my father asks sharply.
“Being moved to Eagle Point,” I reply.
Eagle Point—our most secure safe house, carved into the cliffside fifty miles north. Accessible only by helicopter or a single winding road, it was built with one purpose: to withstand siege. Three feet of reinforced concrete, independent power and water, enough supplies to last months.
“Your mother?” he presses.
“Going with them. The first helicopter leaves in—” I check my watch, “six minutes.”
Anatoly nods once, shoulders squaring. “I should be with them.”
The old man surprises me. I expected him to insist on staying, on fighting. But at his core, Anatoly Belov has always been a protector, not a warrior. His violence was always calculated, never passionate.
“Dimitri will escort you,” I agree. “The second transport is ready.”
Viktor’s voice interrupts through the comms. “Sir, Mrs. Belov is asking to speak with you before departure.”
Something tightens in my chest. Bella. Whatever she wanted to talk about before Arseny interrupted with news of the bombing.
“Put her through,” I order.
“Not on comms,” Viktor replies. “She says it’s private.”
I meet Arseny’s eyes. He gives me the barest nod— go . This might be important.
The tactical display on the main screen flashes red. Satellite imagery shows vehicles approaching our outer perimeter. Three black SUVs, moving fast.
“First chopper needs to be airborne now,” I tell Viktor, my jaw tight. “Tell Mrs. Belov whatever it is will have to wait. Get them to Eagle Point immediately.”
Through the comms, I hear Viktor relaying my message, followed by silence.
Then Bella’s voice, distant but clear enough: “Understood.”
“Map out Volkov’s properties. Known associates. Weaknesses,” I tell the others, my focus shifting back to the immediate threat. “We plan our response now.”
“Response?” my father asks, a dark gleam entering his eyes. Not caution—anticipation. The old wolf sensing blood.
I look at him directly, our matching gray-blue eyes locking in perfect understanding. “They brought war to our doorstep, Father. We’re not going to send a strongly worded letter.”
A cold smile touches Anatoly’s lips, pride and savagery mingling on his weathered face.
“The Volkovs forgot what happens when they cross a Belov.” His hand claps my shoulder, heavy with approval. “Remind them, son.”
Dimitri steps forward, his posture rigid with urgency.
“ Pakhan ,” he addresses my father, “the second helicopter is waiting. We need to move now.” His hand hovers near his earpiece, eyes darting to the security feeds where the approaching vehicles have triggered another perimeter alert. “Chopper is ready.”
My father nods, his moment of bloodthirsty nostalgia giving way to the pragmatism that’s kept him alive for decades. With one final look at me—half blessing, half command—he follows Dimitri toward the east exit.
I stride from the room, my mind spinning through permutations, plans, consequences. The corridors of the east wing are eerily quiet, staff having been sent to secure locations after the Code Red was initiated. My footsteps echo on marble, the only sound besides the distant hum of generators powering up for emergency protocols.
A shadow moves at the edge of my vision—a small figure pressed against the wall near the service entrance. I reach for my weapon instinctively, then pause.
Anya. Bella’s personal maid.
“You should be with the Mrs. Belov,” I say, not breaking stride.
“Mr. Belov,” she calls anxiously. “Please.”
Something in her tone makes me stop. Turn. Look at her properly.
Her face is pale, hands trembling. She looks like she’s been waiting—how long? An hour? More?
“What is it?”
She swallows hard, eyes darting to the security camera in the corner. “I heard something. Something I shouldn’t have.”
I step closer, studying her. Fear radiates from her in waves, but beneath it, determination. The look of someone who’s made a difficult decision.
“Speak.”
She blinks.
“Mrs. Belov—your mother,” she begins, stumbling over the words. “I was tending to the roses in the garden a few days ago. Your mother and your wife were there. I don’t think they knew I could hear them.”
I go still, every muscle tense. “Go on.”
“She knows about the baby,” Anya whispers, her eyes widening as she watches my reaction. “Your mother knows Mrs. Belov is pregnant. She gave her options—to terminate the pregnancy or to take money and leave you. Never tell you about the child.”
The world seems to shift beneath my feet. Baby? Pregnant? The words echo in my head, pieces suddenly clicking into place—Bella’s pallor, her untouched wine, the way she looks.
“Why are you telling me this?” My voice sounds distant to my own ears.
Anya’s eyes fill with tears. “Because I had a baby once. And someone made me choose too.” She straightens, finding courage from somewhere. “And… Mrs. Belov, she’s very kind to me. She… is sad.”
Her simple words cut through me. Sad. Bella, who brings light into my dark world, who makes my children laugh, who faces down Tatiana without flinching—sad because of my mother. Because of choices no woman should have to make alone.
“Thank you,” I say, the words automatic. “You should go now. Join the others.”
She nods once, scurrying away like a frightened mouse.
I stand alone in the corridor, the revelation pounding through my veins like a second heartbeat.
Bella is pregnant. With my child. And my mother threatened her.
The rage that fills me now isn’t cold or calculated. It’s primal. Devastating. The kind that burns cities to ash.