Chapter 6 Luka
LUKA
The phone rings. Once. Twice. Three times.
“Hello?” Hope's voice come through, fragile from sleep.
Sage exhales hard. “Hope? It's me.”
“Sage? Oh my god, where are you? I woke up and you weren't here. I called and—”
“I'm fine,” Sage cuts in quickly, smoothing her tone.
Her hand trembles at her side, but her words flow with forced calm.
“I had to leave town unexpectedly. A supplier in Denver called last night, offering specialty beans and equipment parts we can’t get shipped.
I drove there to pick them up, and I'll be here a couple of days to meet with him.”
There's silence, then Hope's suspicion sharpens. “What? Since when? You didn't say a word about going to Denver. And what about the money, Sage? We talked last week. No big expenses until after tourist season. You said we couldn't risk it.”
I watch Sage carefully. Her pulse beats fast in her throat, visible even from where I stand, but she steadies herself, crafting reassurance with the desperation of someone who has held together too many crumbling pieces for too long.
Every muscle in her body remains taut, ready to fracture under pressure she can’t afford to acknowledge.
“I didn't want to worry you. It came up suddenly, and it'll be fine. Jenny's covering the café, and this is cheaper than replacing everything later if the machine fails in the middle of season.”
Hope huffs into the phone, her worry bleeding into irritation. “You should've told me. You can't just disappear without saying anything. You know what that does to me.”
“I know,” Sage murmurs, her eyes glistening though she refuses to let the tears fall. Her tone is firm despite the tremor underneath. “I'm sorry. But it's handled. You don't need to stress yourself sick over it. Call Hannah and have her stay over until I get back.”
Hope sighs again, weaker this time, the fight draining from her voice. “Bossy.”
“Always.” Sage forces a small laugh, the sound cracked at the edges, paper-thin and barely holding together. “I'll be home soon.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Sage ends the call before her voice can falter any further. The silence that follows feels thicker than it should, crowding against the walls of the bedroom.
She spins toward me, her face flushed with fury and exhaustion that she tries to hide behind anger. “Satisfied? I gave you exactly what you wanted.”
“Not exactly.” I tuck the phone into my pocket, my fingers brushing against the cool metal. “Your sister doubted you. She heard the crack in your voice. She knows you hid something.”
Her hands ball into fists at her sides again, her nails digging into her palms. “What choice did I have? You forced me to lie to her. And now she'll be sitting at home, counting pennies, wondering why I didn't tell her first.”
Her anger flares, but beneath it lies the truth of her words.
Everything about her screams burden. A woman dragged down by responsibility she cannot set aside, delegate, or escape.
The exhaustion carved into the lines around her eyes tells a story of sleepless nights and impossible choices.
If she were playing a role for me, she would be smoother, more polished, and rehearsed.
Not raw and bleeding emotion across every syllable she utters.
“You run a café,” I state, taking a step closer and watching her body tense in response. “With failing equipment. With debt from medical bills that never stop mounting. You expect me to believe that is all you are?”
Her chin tips higher in defiance, her blue eyes blazing with indignation that borders on reckless courage.
“Yes. Because that's the truth. Every dollar I make goes to keeping the lights on and paying for my sister's medication.
If you think that makes me suspicious, then maybe you're looking for conspiracies in the wrong places.”
Her words should sting. Instead, they land in my chest with jarring intensity, sending ripples into parts of me I've kept sealed and guarded for years. Parts I buried the day my father's empire became mine to shoulder.
I take another step, forcing her to look up at me and hold my gaze even though every instinct probably screams at her to back down. “Tell me about your father.”
Her expression falters. A shadow passes over her face, genuine sorrow etched deep enough that I recognize it immediately.
The grief of someone who lost something irreplaceable before they understood its value.
“His name was Thomas Bellamy. He left when I was four.
Died when I was nine. I don't remember much, just the empty chair at the table, and my mother's voice getting smaller every time his name was mentioned. He's gone, Luka. That's all there is.”
“And your mother's side?”
“She was an only child. My grandparents died before I was born. No cousins. No family gatherings. Just us.”
Her voice thins on the last word, but she straightens her shoulders as if preparing herself for another blow that life has trained her to expect.
I let the silence linger, testing her resolve, and watching for any telltale signs of deception. Then I drop the name that burns through my mouth with the bitterness of old betrayals and fresh suspicions. “Ray Bellamy.”
Her eyes widen immediately, confusion sparking so genuinely and unguarded that I almost believe her on instinct alone. “I already told you I've never heard that name before.”
If she’s lying, she deserves an award for the performance of a lifetime.
If she’s telling the truth, then fate has bound me to a woman with bloodlines that run red with violence and broken alliances.
Before I can decide what’s true, my phone buzzes in my pocket, pulling me away from her pale face and trembling hands.
Albert’s message flashes across the screen. She’s here.
Anya.
I pocket the device and move to the door. Sage steps forward as if she might follow, believing she has any authority in this situation.
“You're leaving?” she challenges, her voice rising with disbelief and fresh anger. “And I'm just supposed to sit here like some prisoner?”
I turn back, closing the space between us until I’m towering over her and she has to tilt her chin higher to maintain eye contact. Her breath catches audibly, but she doesn't retreat or give me the satisfaction of her fear. “That is exactly what you are until I know otherwise.”
Her mouth parts, rage vibrating through every line of her body, in the set of her jaw, and the fire in her eyes. “You can't keep me locked up forever. Sooner or later, you'll have to decide if I'm your enemy or just some woman you dragged out of her life for nothing.”
The honesty in her tone cuts deeper than I expected, slicing through layers of suspicion I've built over years of betrayals and carefully constructed walls.
“Stay here,” I command, securing the door from the outside.
Her voice follows me down the hall burning with fire and defiance that refuses to be extinguished. “Coward!”
The word echoes as I pocket the key and descend the stairs, resounding in my mind with more persistence than it should. Vega trots after me, his nails clicking against the hardwood, his presence a quiet tether to the woman locked behind a door above us.
The cabin’s lower level looks like a mountain retreat, but in truth, it’s been engineered for survival.
Heavy timber beams arch overhead, their rustic appearance concealing steel reinforcements that most mountain homes never require.
Stone walls hide wiring and surveillance systems installed by men who understood that beauty and security could coexist if designed properly.
The hearth dominates one wall, flames already burning low against fresh logs that crackle and pop in the stillness.
Anya stands in the center of the room, framed by lamplight that catches in her long, dark hair and makes it gleam with the sheen of polished mahogany.
My baby sister. Twenty-eight years old and beautiful in the way our mother was beautiful.
Elegant, refined, with sharp green eyes that miss nothing, and a spine of steel hidden beneath silk and grace.
“Brat,” she greets, her lips brushing my cheeks in the old way our parents taught us before America tried to erase those customs. She steps back to study me, knowing every tell and micro-expression that betrays what I refuse to acknowledge aloud. “You look tired.”
“Business doesn't sleep,” I answer, the response automatic with same words I've offered her a hundred times before.
Her smile fades, replaced by concern that sits uncomfortably on her face. “Neither do you.”
We move to the chairs positioned near the hearth, settling into seats that face each other across a low table carved from a single piece of wood.
Flames snap against the logs, throwing heat that fills the room but doesn't reach the space between us.
The distance isn't physical but something deeper, built from the life I lead that she orbits without fully entering.
She studies me with the same patience our mother once wielded, waiting for me to fill the silence with whatever truth I'm willing to share.
Dasha Barinov understood that men like our father, and men like me, needed space to arrive at honesty on our own terms. Anya learned the lesson well, though I see traces of impatience in the tightness around her mouth.
“Otets asks for you,” she offers at last, breaking the quiet with words that have more meaning than their simplicity suggests.
Isaak Barinov, my father. Once a giant in every room he entered, commanding respect and fear equally, and building an empire that stretched from Moscow to Seattle with merciless exactness and strategic brilliance.
Now he's thinner, weaker, and half-paralyzed from a stroke that struck him down four years ago but didn’t blunt the sharpness of his eyes or the steel in his voice.