11. Chapter 11
11
Konstantin
A while ago
“ Suka ,” I grunt, slamming shut Le Corbusier’s “Towards a New Architecture.” The leather binding makes a satisfying thud against the ebony shelf, but it does nothing to quiet the rage coursing through my veins.
Tatiana’s smirk flashes through my mind—that knowing look as Boris laid out my father’s ultimatum. Even in a coma, the old bastard finds new ways to control my life. My mother’s silence burns worse than Tatiana’s smugness. Always the dutiful wife, even now.
The scent of cedar and leather drifts through the air, faint and familiar. Usually, it’s enough to settle me, but tonight it feels as useless as the untouched glass of cognac beside me. The liquid catches the soft glow of the sconces, shimmering like a taunt.
I close my eyes, letting my head fall back against the butter-soft leather of the chaise lounge. The hidden reading room is supposed to be my sanctuary. The place I come to think, to escape, to remind myself that in a world of chaos, there’s still order. Tonight, though? Even the bookshelves lining the walls feel like they’re closing in.
My fingers wrap around the burner phone—a specialized model we use only for internal communication, virtually untraceable. The weight feels heavy in my palm, a reminder of all the secrets these walls have witnessed. Before I can stop myself, I press speed dial for Arseny. It rings twice.
“Boss.” Arseny’s voice is crisp, a faint hum of background noise betraying he’s somewhere he shouldn’t be. Probably a casino. “What’s with the emergency bat signal? Did someone die, or are we planning on killing someone?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, exhaling sharply. “You’re very funny, Karpov. Don’t quit your day job.”
“Noted.” He pauses, and I can almost hear the flick of a poker chip between his fingers. “So? What’s so urgent you’re calling me from the Batcave?”
I glance toward the one-way mirror, where my bedroom sits empty on the other side. “It’s not the Batcave. It’s my reading room.”
“Potato, po-tah-to. You only call from there when you’re either plotting something or avoiding someone. Which is it?”
“Both.”
There’s a pause, filled with muffled voices and laughter on his end. “Hang on, let me step outside. Can’t strategize over the sound of broken dreams and overpriced vodka.”
I wait, hearing the click of a door and the faint rush of wind as he steps onto what I assume is a balcony.
“Right,” Arseny says. “Hit me.”
“I need you to arrange… interviews.”
“Interviews?” His voice lifts with mild interest. “For what?”
I let the word hang, tasting its ridiculousness. “Wives.”
The line goes silent for so long I check to make sure the call hasn’t dropped.
“Arseny.”
A sharp intake of breath, and then his laughter bursts out, unrestrained. “I’m sorry—what? Wives? As in, plural? Or is this a code word for something illegal? Please tell me it’s illegal.”
I rub a hand down my face, irritation simmering. “I’m serious.”
“You’re serious.” His tone shifts from amusement to disbelief, though I can still hear the smirk. “Konstantin Belov, the soon-to-be Pakhan of the Bratva, the man who once stared down a firing squad without blinking, is asking me to find him a wife ?”
“You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” There’s a muffled sound—he’s probably covering the phone to stifle another laugh. “I mean, of course. Who wouldn’t be thrilled to play matchmaker for the most emotionally constipated man in the world?”
“Arseny.”
“But why, boss? I mean… why do you want to voluntarily chain yourself to another woman after—?”
“Don’t.” The word comes out sharp enough to cut glass. “After Irina…” I pause, the name bitter on my tongue. “It’s not voluntary. If I don’t get married soon—everything goes to Filipp.”
“Filipp?” Arseny’s laugh is harsh. “That cocaine-snorting excuse for a stepbrother? The one who can barely run a bath, let alone a criminal empire?”
“Tatiana’s master plan.” I take a long breath, fighting the urge to put my fist through the mirror. “She’s been positioning him for years, apparently. And now my father’s given her the perfect opening.”
“Christ.” Arseny goes quiet again, but I can practically hear his mind working. “You need someone who isn’t going to run.”
The truth of it sits like lead in my chest. Someone who won’t abandon my children. Someone who won’t shatter what little trust they have left.
“Well,” he says after a beat, his usual dry humor returning, “you could’ve just asked me to shoot someone. Would’ve been easier.”
“Can you do it or not?”
“Sure. I’ll set up a casting call. ‘Wife Wanted: Must tolerate brooding warlord and come with references.’ Should I advertise in ‘Vogue’ or ‘Playboy’?”
“Arseny.”
“I’m kidding. Mostly.” There’s a long silence between us, broken only by the distant sound of waves on his end. Finally, he sighs. “I’ll handle it, boss. But for the record, this is the weirdest thing you’ve ever asked me to do—and that includes the time with the alpacas.”
“Good.” I set the phone down, movement in the one-way mirror catching my attention. What I see stops my breath cold.
A woman. In my bedroom. At Shadow Hill.
Impossible.
Yet here she is.
She’s small but with curves that could make a priest question his calling. Dark, wet hair tumbles past her shoulders, clinging to what appears to be an equally soaked white blouse. Her boots are leaving muddy prints on my mahogany floor, and she’s clutching an oversized bag like it’s a lifeline.
And then she sees it—my portrait.
Her lips part, and her cheeks flush so deeply it looks like she’s burning from the inside out. For a moment, I think she might combust right there in front of me. But it’s her face that holds me transfixed—those flushed cheeks framed by rain-dampened strands of hair, wide ocean-blue eyes that seem to shift with every flicker of light and lips that move incessantly as she… talks to my portrait?
I lean forward on the chaise, previous rage forgotten, as I watch her gesture animatedly at the painting. Her face grows redder by the second as she stares at it—at me .
Fuck me, she’s hot —not pretty, not beautiful, not any of that bullshit. She’s got this raw, primal beauty that hits you like a goddamn freight train.
The audacity. The sheer, unfiltered audacity.
My sanctuary, my private space—the one place on this cursed property where no one dares intrude—and this woman just strolls in, dripping water onto my floors like some kind of bedraggled woodland nymph.
I don’t move from my seat, not yet.
I can see her, but she can’t see me. My pulse beats slow and steady, honed from years of control, but my mind is already cycling through possibilities.
Assassin? Highly unlikely. Unless the Bratva has recently adopted a new strategy involving soaking wet women armed with oversized bags.
A prank? Also doubtful. No one in my employ would dare. That leaves… What? A stray? A lunatic?
I should call security. I should already have a dozen armed men in here. Instead, I’m stuck, my eyes following the water dripping down her neck, disappearing under the edge of a black bra that’s doing a damn good job of highlighting just how perfect her breasts are. Her rain-soaked shirt clings to her body, turning sheer enough to show every curve. The lace of her bra peeks through, like some twisted joke I can’t look away from. I should be interrogating her, throwing her out—anything but sitting here, frozen, like an idiot in my own house.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she mutters at the painting, waving her hand as though shooing it away. “You’re a painting. You have no right to judge me.”
I lean forward, unable to stop the grin tugging at my mouth.
Is she actually talking to the damn thing?
Her hand twitches at her side, and she narrows her eyes at the canvas. “Why do you look like you’re plotting world domination but could also recite poetry to seduce someone while doing it? That’s not fair. Pick a lane.”
Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. She’s flirting. With me. Or at least, the version of me on the canvas.
I cock my head to the side, the thought flickering through my mind: Did she escape from a mental hospital?
She’s pacing now, muttering to herself, her cheeks flushed a deep pink that spreads down her neck. I can’t catch every word, but snippets reach me—something about my portrait, bad decisions, and… a sex toy ?
Her eyes dart to the bag that she tosses onto the armchair, and I can’t help but follow, catching the brief flash of frustration as she slaps her own cheek.
A sex toy? The corner of my mouth twitches, amusement flickering through me despite myself. Surely I misheard.
I take a sip of the cognac, the liquid warming a path down my throat as my grip tightens around the glass. It steadies me, but not enough to quell the strange pull she stirs.
Today has taken a turn I didn’t see coming. Absurd? Absolutely. Fascinating? For sure.
She freezes suddenly, her attention caught by the mirror beside my portrait. For a moment, she just stands there, staring at her reflection, and I’m struck by how still the room feels, the air heavier somehow.
Her lips part slightly, and her expression softens, uncertain. Vulnerable.
And then her eyes meet mine.
Except she doesn’t know it.
Through the one-way glass, her gaze locks onto my hidden vantage point, and for a second, I forget to breathe. My chest tightens, and my fingers flex against the glass of cognac as though holding on will keep me grounded.
Behind her, the bed looms in the mirror, its vast, unyielding presence framing her. She notices it too—her gaze flickering to the reflection, her lips pressing together like she’s trying to suppress some unspoken thought.
The way she tilts her head, her wide eyes tracing her own reflection, sends a pulse of something raw through me. She doesn’t know I’m watching, but the illusion that she’s looking straight at me feels too real, too charged.
I take another slow sip of cognac, letting the burn center me as I remind myself that this is my space, my control.
Then, abruptly, she looks away, breaking our unintended eye contact through the mirror.
Whatever the fuck that was, it breaks. Hard, and I let out a long breath.
She turns quickly, her flushed cheeks darker now, muttering something I can’t catch as she moves toward the row of doors.
Her hand fumbles with the first one—my weapons cabinet. Locked. Thank God.
The second door, the entrance to my reading room, holds firm under her growing frustration. By the time she reaches the third door—the bathroom—her shoulders slump in visible relief as it clicks open.
I drag a hand down my face, disbelief warring with something I can’t quite name.
“ Bozhe moi ,” I mutter under my breath. She’s not just intruding; she’s making herself at home.
The sound of water hissing to life echoes through the walls, followed by the faint rustle of clothes hitting the floor. My throat tightens. My mind fills in the gaps—her naked body under the spray of my shower.
I should leave. I should walk out of this room, call Arseny, and have her dragged out of here before she causes any more damage—or tempts me into something I’ll regret.
But I don’t move.
Instead, I sit there, my fists curling against the leather armrests as I listen to her muffled voice drifting from the bathroom.
What the fuck is wrong with me?