12. Chapter 12
12
Konstantin
" Y ob tvoyu mat’ ? What the fuck am I even doing?”
The one-way glass reflects my sharp, unsmiling face, keeping the turmoil buried where it belongs. My hidden reading room feels like a trap, too small to contain the tension building in my chest. From here, I can see faint trails of steam drifting in from the open bedroom door. The scent of cedarwood and something sweeter weaves its way into my head.
My fucking soap.
She’s using it. Wrapping herself in my scent like it’s hers to take.
In fifteen years of running the Bratva, I’ve seen some shit. Rival mobsters trying to kill me? Tuesday. International weapons deals gone wrong? Child’s play. But this—this tiny woman breaking into my fortress just to use my shower and talk to my portrait?
Un-fucking-believable.
I take another sip of cognac, the liquid burning a path down my throat. My reflection blinks back at me, equally dumbfounded. For the first time in my life, I have no fucking clue what to do.
Even when Irina disappeared, I didn’t let the cracks show. Alya was barely a year old, a fragile little thing who cried if I wasn’t within arm’s reach. The twins were 3, still stumbling over their words and learning how to navigate the world. They didn’t understand why their mother was gone. She was the kind of mother who handed them off to nannies, who showed up for birthdays with gifts so expensive they didn’t even know what to do with them and left before the candles were blown out.
But Nikolai—he changed.
At first, it was small. A subtle pullback. He stopped asking to be picked up. Stopped following Lev’s lead when it came to the games they made up. His wide, watchful eyes weren’t just curious anymore; they were wary.
I kept things together. I had to. Midnight feedings for Alya, soothing her screams that pierced through the night like knives, never letting her cry too long because it would wake the boys. Lev’s nightmares were another battle—him clinging to me so tightly I could feel his tiny fingers digging into my chest, his little voice shaking as he whispered about monsters I couldn’t fight.
And Nikolai? He didn’t cry. Not once. He just sat there, watching, as if trying to figure me out.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said to him one night when he wouldn’t stop staring at me from across the room. I was kneeling next to Lev’s bed, trying to settle him down, and Nikolai was sitting on the floor, silent, his toy truck clutched in his hand. “You can stop looking at me like that. I’m still here.”
His only response was to clutch the truck tighter and turn away.
Business doesn’t stop. It can’t. I’m running the Bratva, putting out fires, brokering deals, and crushing anyone stupid enough to stand in my way.
Control. Calm. I hold the chaos in my hands and don’t let a single piece drop.
And yet, none of it prepared me for this.
This little trespasser—this audacious, infuriating little burglar—is testing every ounce of control I’ve spent a lifetime perfecting.
I stand up calmly from the leather seat, the glass still clutched in my fingers. I’ve never felt this kind of intrigue burning under my skin—not in years. Being a father of three means I’m supposed to have my priorities in order. Business, family, control—those are the cornerstones of my life. I’ve bled to build one of the biggest real estate empires in California and beyond. I’ve killed to cement the Bratva’s power right here on American soil. None of it came cheap.
Now? My heart drums a savage beat in my ears, mocking the self-control I’ve prided myself on.
The sound of the shower running is torture. Pure, unadulterated torture. Steam curls beneath the bathroom door like a taunt, and I find myself pacing the reading room like a caged animal.
I drag a hand over my hair, forcing myself to breathe. Control. Always. Control.
I’m not proud of how long I stand there, staring at that door. Listening. Imagining. Every drop of water cascading over her body seems like a personal attack. I’ve never been a man who loses control easily, but the thought of her in my shower, with her hair wet and her hands sliding over every inch of her skin…
“Get a grip of yourself,” I growl under my breath, though it sounds more like a plea than an order.
And then she appears.
The bathroom door creaks open, releasing a rolling wave of steam into the room. My breath catches, and for a moment, my heart forgets how to beat. She steps forward, bare feet padding softly against the hardwood. Her hair is wet, droplets sliding down her collarbone to gather in the hollow of her throat. Even in the low light, I can see the water glistening against her skin, following the delicate curve from her neck all the way down to the plush swell of her breasts.
She’s wearing my towel. Suka . It’s not enough to fully cover the full, tempting roundness of her chest. The plush beige fabric hugs her curves, barely managing to hold her in, revealing an expanse of smooth thigh and the tantalizing shape of her hips. Each breath she takes seems to strain against the cotton, making it clear just how little barrier there is between her and me.
“ Blyad ,” I mutter, fingers curling into a fist.
Seven years, five months, and three days since Irina vanished. Not that I’ve been counting. And it’s not like I’ve been celibate—I’m a man, not a fucking monk. But those women were transactions, simple exchanges of pleasure without complications.
This is different.
No woman—not Irina, not anyone—has ever been in this bedroom. This space isn’t for them. It’s mine. The only place in this mansion that feels like me, not the Pakhan . This is where I come to think, to breathe, to be something other than the man the world demands me to be.
The portrait hangs here, dominating one wall like a silent judge. My mother had it commissioned years ago, though she never explained why. She found the best artist in Moscow—someone whose clients were oligarchs and kings—and insisted he paint me. I hated the idea at the time, told her it was a waste of money, but she didn’t care. She never did when she decided something was worth doing.
When the painting arrived, she hung it without a word, her expression giving nothing away. But I knew. It wasn’t vanity—it was her way of reminding me who I was or who I could become. A son she was proud of, even if she didn’t say it out loud.
I let her do it. The only thing she could do or decide. It was my way of giving her something—my way of saying I cared without saying a damn word.
But never in my lifetime did I think that portrait would lead me to this moment.
The woman’s voice breaks the quiet, low and muttering, the kind of sound meant for herself, not me.
“Don’t look at him,” she says, her tone half-command, half-plea. “Don’t you dare look at—”
She cuts herself off, and my brow lifts before I can stop it. What in the actual hell is this woman doing?
My feet refuse to move, stuck as if I’ve been nailed to the floor. I don’t want to look at her, don’t want to acknowledge this ridiculous situation, but my body betrays me. My gaze lands squarely on her as the scene unfolds before me like some fever dream I can’t wake from.
“This is your fault,” she says suddenly, her hand gesturing at herself, her expression a mix of frustration and… something else. “You and your… your everything. Who gave you permission to look like that while I’m high and vulnerable and—”
She stops mid-sentence, her shoulders sagging as though the weight of the world is pressing down on them. Her head tilts forward slightly, and I catch the way her fingers tremble as they tighten on the edge of the towel.
I’ve seen men break under interrogation, seen fear in its rawest, most unfiltered form. This isn’t that. She’s not afraid. This is something else entirely, something so absurdly human that I don’t even have a word for it.
And then, she glances at the bed.
My bed.
My jaw tightens. She takes a hesitant step closer, her bare feet silent on the gleaming floor, and I swear my entire world narrows to the way her toes curl slightly with each step.
Her lips move again, and even though I can’t make out every word, the tone says enough: quiet, self-reassuring, like she’s trying to convince herself this is normal. Like she belongs here.
The towel slips slightly, and she adjusts it, clutching it tighter, her expression flickering between hesitation and something that makes my cock stir at the sight, hardening against my zipper.
I finally manage to unstick my feet, stepping forward as the silence between us stretches, heavier than the air itself.
“This is quite the show,” I say to myself.
I take in the sight of her pressed lips, the flutter of her long lashes, and I feel my cock pulse against my pants, throbbing with the desire to see what lies beyond that towel. Christ, I want to see those pretty pink lips wrapped around my shaft, tasting my pre-cum like it’s the sweetest nectar in the world. I want to see that tongue dart out and dance across my tip before she takes me all the way down her throat, gagging on my length until she begs for more.
She moves again, crossing the room like she has every right to be here. The towel clings to her damp skin, and for a brief second, I think she’s finally realized the gravity of her situation—that she’s in my space, standing inches from my bed.
Then she mutters something about weed and rummages through her bag.
I blink. Weed?
A rustle. A pause. Then—
Wait.
A slow, creeping disbelief unfurls in my chest.
She straightens, holding something neon-green in her hands like a relic plucked from the depths of hell.
I stare.
She stares.
We both stare at the enormous radioactive-green dildo now cradled between her fingers like a sacred offering.
What the actual fuck?
My mouth parts, but words— rational words —refuse to form.
She groans, dragging a hand down her face, muttering under her breath. “This is insane.”
No argument there.
I blink again, slow and deliberate, as if my brain needs time to process what my eyes are clearly seeing.
I stare at her, then at the object, then back at her, as if sheer disbelief might somehow make it disappear, equal parts fascinated and deeply, deeply confused, as she tilts her head, inspecting the damn thing like it might hold answers.
“It’s self-care, Bella. Live a little,” she says in a voice that doesn’t sound like hers, but given my current state of total bewilderment, I can’t be sure.
I drag a hand over my jaw.
I cannot— cannot —make sense of this situation.
Mafia wars? Fine. Burying bodies? Routine. Boardroom negotiations that double as battlefields? Easy.
But this? A half-naked woman in my bedroom, holding a neon-green dildo while having an existential crisis?
I did not train for this.
And yet, I stay frozen, watching— because what else can I do?
She exhales sharply, like she’s accepted her fate, then straightens. “Cleaning time!”
The words come out of her own mouth, yet somehow, she still looks as startled as I feel.
I watch her as she walks straight back into my bathroom.
I don’t stop her. I don’t plan to.
I just stand there, hand still clenched around my glass, watching the door swing shut like it’s closing on my last shred of sanity.