22. Chapter 22
22
Konstantin
I watch her leave.
More specifically, I watch that ass leave.
Her ass— Perky, round, fucking perfect handfuls, the kind that would redden beautifully under my palm, that would bounce and quiver with each thrust. I adjust myself, irritated by how quickly she affects me.
I lean back in the chair, arms folded, watching as Isabella Marquez storms down the hallway like she has somewhere better to be.
She doesn’t.
I remain seated, forcing myself not to follow. Not to drag her back by that wild mane of hair and bend her over this desk. Patience. I’ve always excelled at patience.
Isabella Marquez’s file might as well be tattooed on the inside of my skull. Three consecutive years as top seller. A 98% close rate on luxury properties. Seventeen industry awards collecting dust on a cheap particleboard shelf.
She doesn’t peddle houses. She reads people. Finds the spaces where they feel powerful, vulnerable, aroused—whatever psychological button needs pressing. Then she sells them their perfect cage and makes them thank her for it.
I respect skill.
What I respect more is that she didn’t spread her legs to get where she is. I’ve investigated—exhaustively. No fucking clients for signatures. No sucking off listing agents for prime properties. No riding her boss’s cock for bonuses. In this industry of desperate, fame-hungry whores, she’s built her reputation on raw talent alone.
That talent is the only reason this pathetic excuse for a company still exists. One competent woman—Isabella Marquez—holding up a crumbling empire of mediocrity. That talent is what made acquiring this place worth my time. Talent like hers doesn’t just deserve to be bought—it deserves to be owned. Controlled. Directed.
Her purse rests beside the ancient coffee machine that smells of burned grounds and corporate angst. She walks toward it with that deliberate confidence that makes my cock stir against my will. When she leans into the counter to reach for the bag, her waist narrows, her hips flare, the cheap fabric of her skirt straining to contain what’s beneath.
I imagine that ass beneath my palm. Beneath my belt.
The thought of her former boss—that impotent, balding American with his polyester ties and middle-management backbone—sitting in this very chair watching this same view every day makes something primal rise in my chest. The rage of a predator finding another male’s scent on what should be his territory.
That worthless fuck never deserved to employ her. To witness this daily ritual. To have any claim to her time or talent.
She feels my eyes. Turns her head slightly, catching me watching over her shoulder. For one electric moment, blue eyes meet mine—defiant, nervous, hungry. Her lips press together before she quickly looks away, but not before I see the flush creeping up her neck.
Her fingers aren’t as steady as they were during our negotiation as she folds the contract in half, then forcefully shoves it into her purse like it’s contaminated. Like putting distance between herself and the document might somehow protect her from what we both know is inevitable.
With a practiced motion that’s part habit, part performance, she tosses her hair back over her shoulder. The movement ripples through her entire body, making her ass shake subtly beneath that tight skirt. The sight shoots straight to my groin.
Blyad.
I imagine the sound it would make if I spanked it. The way she’d gasp. The way she’d glare at me afterward, her eyes flashing, her body stiff with the kind of tension that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with how badly she wants it too.
She does. And fuck, I like that. Too much.
I saw it. Smelled it. My cock stirs. I adjust myself, irritated by my body’s predictable response.
I clench my jaw as I watch her wave goodbye to Mark Harrison—43, balding despite the hair transplant he thinks no one notices, divorced twice, useless middle management I’ll be replacing by week’s end. He smiles at her with that pathetic longing of a man who’s spent years staring but never daring to touch.
The door clicks shut behind her. Forty-six seconds pass before I allow myself to move. My eyes linger on the space where Isabella stood, the ghost of her scent—vanilla and fear and arousal—still hanging in the air.
Suka.
Any other woman would have signed already. I wouldn’t have given them a choice. A word to my men, a few carefully leveraged threats, perhaps some blackmail—standard Bratva negotiation tactics. The methods my father taught me before the stroke left him a breathing corpse.
But with Isabella… the thought of coercion leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
I want to see her submit willingly. Watch her eyes darken as she realizes what she’s agreeing to. What she’s giving me.
Those curves. The way her breasts strained against her blouse when she tried to appear confident. The flush that crept up her neck when I leaned close. I can still picture her splayed across my bed that night she broke in, pleasuring herself while staring at my portrait.
She wants this as much as I do. She just doesn’t know it yet.
Women have always been disposable to me. Assets to be acquired, used, and discarded when they no longer serve their purpose. My ex-wife was a transaction—an arrangement made on paper, sealed with diamonds instead of passion. Useful until she wasn’t.
Isabella is different. Not because I care for her but because I want her. Physically. Viscerally. A hunger that gnaws at me in ways that are both foreign and infuriating.
That thought—it roots deep in me, twists and coils around my ribs, and settles into something dangerous.
Because for the first time, I am not in control.
I always am.
Always.
But not with her. Not with the way my body reacts, with the way my hand clenches against my thigh instead of where I really want it—on her.
I let out a slow breath, pressing my fingers against the bridge of my nose. I should call my men, move on to the next thing. Handle the empire, manage my stepmother’s scheming, prepare for the inevitable power grab that’s been festering since my father fell into a coma.
Instead, I stare at the door she just walked out of.
Forty-eight hours. I’ve given her forty-eight hours when I’ve never given anyone more than minutes to make a decision that affects their life.
The wait will be excruciating. But I’ve always appreciated the things I’ve had to wait for.
I rise slowly, walking to the window that overlooks the street. My eyes track her as she exits the building, that defiant sway to her hips making my jaw clench.
“If you stare any harder, you’ll burn a hole through the glass.”
I don’t turn at the sound of Arseny’s voice. He moves like a fucking ghost—a trait that’s saved my life more than once.
“Did I ask for your commentary?” I keep my eyes on Isabella as she slides into the back of my car, Pyotr holding the door open with that perfect, invisible service that’s become his trademark.
“You pay me for it.” Arseny moves to stand beside me, a manila folder in his hand. At six-foot-four, he towers over most men, but we stand eye to eye. “The employment contracts. All signed.”
I take the folder without looking at it. “That was fast.”
“Amazing what people will do when properly motivated.” His voice carries that hint of dry amusement that’s become his signature. “Though I had to promise Harrison a healthy severance package.”
“Did you now?”
“Don’t worry; it involves a one-way ticket to Arizona and a strong suggestion to forget he ever heard the name Belov.” He pauses and then continues, “My sources tell me your brother is making moves.”
My jaw tightens. “Stepbrother.”
“Semantics.” Arseny shrugs. “Filipp is hosting a dinner tomorrow night for the Petrov and Volkov families.”
“Without consulting me.”
“Would you expect anything else?” Arseny’s expression doesn’t change, but I detect the subtle note of disdain in his voice. He’s never bothered hiding his contempt for my stepmother’s spawn. “Tatiana is helping him arrange it. They’re calling it a ‘family unity’ event.”
“What they’re calling it doesn’t interest me.” I pick up a pen from the desk, twirling it between my fingers. “What they’re planning does.”
“They’re planning your replacement, Your Highness.” Only Arseny gets away with using that nickname. Anyone else would lose their tongue. “The doctors say the Pakhan … won’t make it past the month. Tatiana is positioning Filipp to take over.”
I snap the pen in half, black ink staining my fingers. “They’ll regret it.”
Arseny doesn’t react to the display of temper. Instead, he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and offers it to me with that steady hand that’s never trembled, not even when pulling a trigger.
“The old alliances are wavering,” he continues as I wipe the ink from my skin. “Your bachelor status isn’t helping. The families respect tradition.”
“And tradition demands a wife.” The words taste bitter on my tongue.
“A suitable wife,” Arseny emphasizes. “From a respected family. Not some American real estate agent who trespassed on your property.”
“You don’t approve of my choice.” It’s not a question.
Arseny doesn’t flinch. “The old guard expect tradition. They’ll question why you’ve selected an outsider with no connections when there are daughters from allied families who’ve been groomed for this position since birth.”
“Your point?”
“My point is that she’s not the kind of wife the old guard will accept.”
I lean back in the chair, studying him. “But?”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. He knows me too well. “But she’s not the worst choice you could make. She’s intelligent. Adaptable. And her lack of connections means no divided loyalties.”
“Unlike Irina Mikhailova.” The name of my ex-wife still tastes like ash.
“Precisely.” Arseny pulls out his phone. “And she needs money—not for herself, but for her family. For that house she’s fighting to keep. For those siblings she’s protecting.”
“A woman with something to protect is a woman who stays,” I observe.
“And they’re predictable.” Arseny’s eyebrow lifts slightly.
“She’ll submit to me.”
I find myself wanting to smile and suppress it.
She’ll be mine in every way that matters. On her knees, in my bed, under my control—completely surrendered.
The memory of that night makes my cock twitch. Her fingers working between her thighs with the ugliest dildo I’ve ever seen. Her head thrown back, all while staring at my painted face. I want to see her on her knees, those full lips wrapped around me, showing her what the real thing feels like down her throat.
Arseny’s phone vibrates.
I know him well enough to recognize the shift. The subtle tensing of his shoulders as he glances at the screen. The almost imperceptible change in his breathing.
Something’s wrong.
“What is it?” I ask, though I already know. There’s only one thing that would make Arseny lose his composure.
His eyes meet mine, his face suddenly drained of color.
“Boss, the Pakhan —” He hesitates, a rare moment of uncertainty from a man who never shows it. “He’s coding. The doctors say it’s critical. They don’t expect him to make it through the night.”
My face remains impassive except for one tell—a slight narrowing of my eyes that Arseny recognizes immediately. He’s already reaching for his phone as I say, “Get the car. Now.”