24. Chapter 24
24
Konstantin
M y father is dying.
My father.
The man who built an empire. The legend who turned men into monsters and boys into soldiers.
The man who’s spent the last six months trapped in a body that betrayed him. The legend who taught me how to kill a man seventeen different ways before I turned 12. The shadow whose approval I’ve spent my life chasing.
I feel nothing. Or I tell myself I feel nothing. The strange hollowness in my chest calls me a liar.
Arseny watches me, waiting for my reaction. Waiting to see if I’ll break character. He should know better.
We walk out of the office in silence, the air between us heavy with unspoken words. The elevator ride is just as quiet, the mechanical hum the only sound. Outside, the sleek Maybach pulls up within minutes. Viktor steps out, opening the back door without a word.
I slide in, adjusting my cuffs. Arseny follows, his phone already in his hand. My mind calculates moves, countermoves, the shifting chess pieces of the Bratva empire.
“Tatiana?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Already there with Filipp. They’ve called in the family priest.”
Of course they have. My stepmother has always understood the power of symbolism. The faithful wife. The devoted son. The sacred rites. A staged tableau for the families to witness.
Arseny shifts slightly, watching me. “The families will expect you there.” Confusion flickers across his face when I don’t tell the driver to pull off. “Konstantin, your father doesn’t have much time. He’s dying.”
“My father has been dying for six months.” I turn to him, straightening my tie. “And I will not give Tatiana the satisfaction of seeing me rush to his bedside like a grieving child.”
“The families—”
“Will respect strength, not sentiment.” I cut him off. “Call Mikhail. Have him secure the mansion. No one in or out except family and our men. And I want our doctor there, monitoring everything.”
Arseny nods, his composure returning as he taps commands into his phone.
I pull out my phone and dial. The line barely rings before it’s answered. “Anya.”
“Mr. Belov?” The nanny’s voice is alert, professional.
“Where are they?”
“At school. I was just about to—”
“Bring them home. Now.”
A pause. A carefully measured breath. “All three?”
“Yes.”
Anya doesn’t ask questions. That’s why I trust her. “I’ll have them at the estate within the hour.”
I hang up without another word.
Alya, Nikolai, and Lev deserve the chance to see him before it’s too late. Even if they don’t yet understand how this world works. Even if part of me wants to shield them from it for just a little longer.
I tuck my phone back into my pocket. “Have our doctor on standby. I want reports from our people on the medical team every fifteen minutes.”
Arseny nods, already making the calls.
I turn to the window, watching the city outside, but seeing nothing.
The Pakhan is dying. The families will be circling like vultures. And I have no time for sentiment.
Yet all I can think about is Isabella Marquez.
The way she looked at me across my desk.
The way she’ll look beneath me in my bed.
I exhale slowly as I stare out the window.
Let the families prepare their power plays.
I have a marriage to arrange.
None of it matters unless she agrees.
The Maybach glides through the wrought-iron gates of the estate, the tires crunching over the pristine gravel driveway. The mansion looms ahead, bathed in cold, artificial light, its towering columns and darkened windows as imposing as the man dying inside it.
Home.
Or at least what once passed for it.
The place looks the same as it always has—grand, controlled, built to intimidate. But there’s a shift in the air tonight. A waiting silence. The kind that comes when men smell blood in the water.
As Viktor steps out to assess the perimeter, I adjust my cuffs, taking my time. Arseny watches me, waiting for my next move. He understands this is no ordinary homecoming. The moment I step through those doors, it’s war.
Tatiana is already inside. So is Filipp. The priest. The inner circle. All waiting. Watching. Calculating.
Let them.
I walk up the marble steps, each measured footfall an unspoken declaration. Two guards stand at the entrance, straightening as I approach. They pull the doors open without a word.
The room is dim, lit by flickering candlelight. My father’s massive bed dominates the space, his once-imposing frame now reduced to a ghost beneath the covers. The steady beep of machines keeps time with his shallow breaths.
But it’s not him I look at first.
It’s them.
Tatiana, perched elegantly on a chair near the bed, her posture carefully curated to exude concern. A silk shawl draped over her shoulders, hands folded delicately. Filipp stands near the fireplace, eyes fixed on the flames like he’s already envisioning his own coronation. The priest lingers near the foot of the bed, murmuring something in soft Russian.
And then, near the window—
Yelena Belov.
My mother.
She sits perfectly still in a tall chair, hands clasped. Her black dress is simple but refined, pearls resting against her collarbone. Her expression is unreadable, eyes distant, staring past all of this—past him , past them .
She doesn’t acknowledge me.
Not at first.
Tatiana is the one to break the silence. “You took your time,” she muses, not bothering to stand. “I suppose we should be grateful you decided to come at all.”
I don’t spare her a glance. Instead, I step further into the room, the weight of my presence shifting the air.
Yelena finally looks up.
Her gaze meets mine—calm, composed. No warmth. No surprise. Just… observation.
“Mama,” I say.
A beat. A flicker of something in her expression. Then, just as quickly, it’s gone.
“Konstantin.” Her voice is quiet. Measured.
Filipp exhales, arms crossing over his chest. “Well, now that we’ve all assembled,” he says, the impatience in his tone barely concealed, “perhaps we can focus on what matters.”
My fingers twitch. He doesn’t matter.
Tatiana lets out a slow breath, shaking her head. “What matters,” she murmurs, “is ensuring the transition of power is handled properly.”
A delicate choice of words.
Not if power will change hands.
But how .
I glance at my father’s unmoving form. “He’s not dead yet.”
Yelena’s fingers tighten slightly in her lap. The only reaction she gives.
Tatiana tilts her head. “No,” she concedes. “But the families expect stability. Certainty.” She looks at me, expression perfectly neutral. “That is why you came, isn’t it?”
I let the silence stretch. Let them wonder.
Because the truth is—
I didn’t come for them.
I didn’t come for him .
I came because, whether I wanted it or not, my next move was already decided.
Because somewhere across the city, Isabella Marquez was making a decision of her own.
And if she said yes—
This entire room would realize just how unprepared they were.
I roll my shoulders back, my jaw set. “We’ll discuss this tomorrow,” I say, my voice final. “For now, the Pakhan is still breathing.”
I don’t wait for a response.
I turn, walking out the way I came.
Because soon, the balance of power in this room will shift.
And they won’t see it coming.