3. Chapter 3
3
Konstantin
B eep. Beep.
The heart monitor pulses in the background, slow and steady, like a countdown to a storm. My father lies motionless in the massive bed that once seemed indestructible—just like him. Anatoly Belov, the Pakhan , the man who groomed me to lead, now reduced to a shell of himself. Tubes and wires snake out from under the sheets, tying him to the machines keeping him alive.
The irony of a man who refused to believe death could touch him.
Six months ago, it wasn’t death that came for him—it was his own arrogance. A stroke brought on by decades of unchecked rage, vodka, and a refusal to follow anything resembling doctor’s orders. He thought himself invincible. Untouchable. But his body betrayed him, collapsing in his office during one of his infamous tirades. By the time anyone reached him, the damage was done.
And now here he is. The great Anatoly Belov, rendered silent for the first time in his life.
I lean against the doorway, arms crossed, letting my gaze sweep over the scene.
The walls are covered in deep mahogany paneling, dark and oppressive, lit only by the warm glow of a brass chandelier and the flicker of the bedside lamp. His chair—the one he used to sit in, dictating orders like a king on his throne—is pushed haphazardly into a corner, the rich leather cracked with age. The room is a monument to power and wealth, but now it feels like a mausoleum.
My mother, Yelena, sits near the window, her back ramrod straight in one of the antique wingback chairs. She’s a picture of cold elegance, her black dress sharp and understated, her hands clasped in her lap. The dim lighting glints off her wedding band, the only sign she’s tethered to the man in the bed—a man who has done nothing but dictate, demand, and dismantle our family piece by piece.
When he fell, it wasn’t grief that swept through the Belov household. It was silence. The kind that weighs heavy, pressing into every corner of the room. The kind that tells you no one’s brave enough—or foolish enough—to say what they’re really thinking.
No one wept for him.
Why would they?
Anatoly Belov was feared, not loved. Except for Alya. She cried, of course. She’s 8—too young to know better. To her, Dedushka is still the man who sneaks her chocolate during dinners and tells her stories about wolves and warriors. She doesn’t see the monster lurking behind the charm.
I clench my jaw, the tension radiating up to my temples. My hand drags through my hair, but it does nothing to ease the knot in my chest. The monster Alya can’t see is the same man who destroyed my family before I was even old enough to understand what family should look like.
Two wives. Not one divorce. Just one of Anatoly’s many rules for the world: when you’re powerful enough, laws don’t apply to you. My mother sits here out of obligation. A legal marriage cemented by alliances and sealed with the kind of loyalty only a woman like her could endure.
And then there’s Tatiana—technically a “mistress,” and nine years older than me—but given the Belov stamp of approval. He married her, too, of course. Quietly. A second union that’s somehow just as binding as the first.
He called it strategy—a younger wife to secure more offspring and tighten his grip on legacy.
I call it pure fucking gluttony—another way for him to take what he wants and leave the rest of us to choke on it.
I exhale slowly, pushing the anger back where it belongs. It’s been years, but the sight of both women in this house still feels like a battle I’ve already lost.
Tatiana, the blonde viper I’ve been forced to call my stepmother—which is technically inaccurate, since she’s more like a sanctioned mistress—perches on the armrest of a chair near the bed, her red silk blouse practically glowing in the dim light.
She doesn’t sit like Mother, poised and stoic. No , Tatiana drapes herself over the chair like it’s a throne, her manicured nails trailing along the wood in a rhythm that grates against the beeping monitor.
She looks like she’s waiting for her moment to strike, her eyes gleaming with the kind of ambition that makes people like her dangerous.
Her fingers pause mid-tap as her gaze flicks to me; for a moment, her eyes lock onto mine, the corner of her lips curling ever so slightly into a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. It’s the kind of smile that promises trouble, a warning wrapped in charm.
I hold her stare, refusing to look away, my jaw tightening as the air between us thickens. She tilts her head just enough to make it clear she’s about to pounce.
“Well, well,” she says. “The prodigal son finally graces us with his presence. Should we alert the press?”
“Only if they want to document you circling this place like a vulture,” I snap, locking eyes with her and holding the glare until she blinks.
Tatiana doesn’t dignify me with a response. Instead, she rises gracefully from the leather chair, smoothing her skirt with slow, deliberate movements. She walks toward the bed, her heels clicking against the polished floor, then stops just short of my father’s still form. Her hand hovers over the blanket, like she’s debating whether to straighten it or simply let the gesture hang in the air—pointless, performative.
“It’s called paying respects, Konstantin,” she murmurs, her voice syrupy but her eyes glinting as they flick back to me. “You might want to try it sometime.”
Before I can fire back, a throat clears from the corner.
Boris steps into the light, his wiry frame casting a long shadow across the room. He’s been my father’s lawyer for decades, a man who thrives on secrets and the leverage they bring. His suit, dark and impeccable, fits like a second skin, his tie knotted with the precision of someone who considers disarray a sin. He adjusts his glasses—not nervously, but methodically, like a ritual—before glancing between us with the faintest flicker of judgment.
“Gentlemen—and ladies,” he begins. “We have more pressing matters to discuss.”
I narrow my eyes. “The Pakhan isn’t dead yet, Boris. Or did you come here to deliver some groundbreaking news I don’t already know?”
Boris doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he unsnaps his leather briefcase and pulls out a stack of documents, setting them down with deliberate care on the side table.
“Your father’s condition has necessitated certain… preparations,” he says finally, looking at me over the rim of his glasses.
“Preparations,” I echo. “Let me guess. Another brilliant scheme to ruin my life?”
“Not ruin,” Boris says calmly, clasping his hands in front of him. “Safeguard. Your father, in his infinite wisdom, left clear instructions regarding the succession of leadership should he become incapacitated.”
Tatiana’s lips curve into a smug smile. I don’t like it.
“Just get to the point,” I snap.
Boris adjusts his glasses again, a theatrical gesture I’m sure he practiced in a mirror. “The terms of succession require you, Konstantin, to marry and produce an heir within the year. Should you fail to meet these conditions, the title of Pakhan will pass to Filipp.”
My brow furrows. For a moment, I think I’ve misheard him. “What the hell do you mean by ‘produce an heir’? I have three children. Or did you forget?”
Boris raises a hand, fingers slightly splayed as if to calm me, then clears his throat.
“Yes,” he says slowly, his gaze flicking to Mother, then Tatiana, before landing briefly on my father’s unmoving form. “But you are not married.”
The words hit like a hammer. My hand grips the back of the chair next to me, my knuckles whitening as disbelief courses through me.
“You’re not fucking kidding me,” I say, the weight of his statement sinking in. The chair creaks under the pressure of my grip, and for a moment, I think about hurling it through the window.
Tatiana, of course, takes this opportunity to twist the knife. “Ah, yes,” she says, her voice smooth, almost amused. “Your lovely wife. What’s her name again? Oh, right. Irina. The one who disappeared seven years ago, leaving you and your three adorable children behind.” Her eyes glint as she adds, “You know your father’s rules, Konstantin. No wife, no complete family. No family…” She trails off, her meaning obvious.
The words claw at something raw inside me.
Irina. My father’s perfect choice. The Mikhailova name came with everything Anatoly wanted—prestige, old money, and a web of political connections that reinforced his empire. “You’ll build something great together,” he’d said when he introduced us, like she was an asset on a ledger instead of a woman.
I hated her almost as much as I hated him for forcing us together. Not that it mattered—she never wanted me, either. Ours was a marriage of two strangers playing a game neither of us had signed up for. She didn’t care about the empire, about me, or even about our children.
And yet, her absence sits on my chest like a weight I can’t shake. My jaw tightens as the memories cut through—Lev’s wide-eyed confusion, Nikolai clinging to my leg, and Alya’s shrill cries echoing down the hallway, too little to understand anything except that her mother was gone. I blamed her for leaving, but deep down, I’ve never stopped blaming myself for trusting her.
For thinking she’d stay.
“Konstantin,” Boris says, breaking the silence. His tone isn’t sharp, but it carries enough weight to pull my attention back to him. “The terms are clear. The council will not accept an incomplete household, regardless of your existing children.”
I let go of the chair abruptly, my hand flexing as though trying to rid itself of the lingering tension.
“So, what?” I say, glaring at Boris. “You want me to find some poor woman, throw a ring on her finger, and pump out a kid in under a year? Does that sound realistic to you?”
Boris doesn’t flinch—he never does. “Realistic or not, it is the requirement. The council will not bend the rules set by your father.”
Tatiana gives a soft laugh, the kind that sends a spike of irritation straight down my spine. “Well, I suppose Filipp should start preparing, then. A real family man—wife, children, stability. Isn’t that what the Bratva needs?”
I snap my head toward her, my glare sharp enough to cut. “Over my dead body.”
Tatiana’s smile grows wider as she stands and walks toward Mother. She stops beside the chair, resting a hand on Mother’s shoulder. The gesture looks casual, but there’s nothing casual about Tatiana.
“Konstantin,” Mother says, her gaze finally meeting mine. “Enough.”
I turn to her, the frustration I’ve been holding back boiling over. “Enough?” The word feels heavy in my mouth. “You’re really just going to sit there and let them pull this? While he’s lying there like that?” I motion to the bed, where my father remains lifeless.
Mother doesn’t answer immediately. Her expression stays calm, but her silence is louder than anything she could say. She looks at me for a long moment before glancing away, her hands still folded neatly in her lap.
“Your father’s decisions were final,” she says. “You know how he is—or was. There’s no room for argument.”
The words hit harder than I expect. My fingers flex as I try to stop myself from gripping the chair again. I stare at her, searching her face for something—regret, anger, anything—but there’s nothing there. She’s spent her entire life bowing to Anatoly’s rules, accepting everything he’s thrown at her.
I know why. She was sold to him by her father like a piece of property. But knowing doesn’t make it easier to watch.
“You always did know how to stay in line,” I say quietly, the bitterness slipping out before I can stop it.
Tatiana doesn’t miss her chance to chime in. She smooths her skirt and presses her hand more firmly on Mother’s shoulder.
“Well, Konstantin,” she says, “I suppose the decision is yours. Either step up and follow your father’s wishes, or step aside and let Filipp take what he’s been preparing for his entire life.”
I laugh, short and sharp, because that’s all I have left.
The only other sound is the steady beeping of the heart monitor.
“Filipp?” I say finally, my focus shifting back to Tatiana. “The same Filipp who spends more time with hookers than with his own wife and kids? The same Filipp who couldn’t organize a lunch order without screwing it up?”
Tatiana tilts her head slightly. “Watch your tone, Konstantin,” she says. “Filipp has been preparing for years. He has a family. He understands what the Bratva needs—tradition and stability.”
“Tradition?” I step closer. “I’ll tear this empire apart before I let Filipp take anything that belongs to me.”
Tatiana lets out a low laugh, the kind that grates against every nerve.
“You have two months,” Boris says, his voice calm but dripping with calculation. “I suggest you start planning a wedding, Mr. Belov. The clock is ticking, and the Bratva will not wait.” He picks up the papers he’d placed earlier, tapping the edges into a neat stack.
The room goes quiet again. I glance at my father, his still form a reminder that even now, he’s controlling everything from the shadows.
Tatiana turns to me, smiling as though she’s already won. “Better start thinking about rings, dear stepson. Time’s running out.”
I clench my fists, the beeping monitor matching the rhythm of my rising fury. The thought of Filipp as Pakhan ? Unthinkable. But the thought of bending to my father’s last manipulative scheme feels just as bitter. And this snake of a woman plots to hand my birthright to her spineless son?
No. Not while I’m breathing.