26. Chapter 26
26
Konstantin
M y phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it.
The room is still. Heavy. The air, thick with the stale scent of antiseptic and something more human beneath it—something slow, wasting, inevitable.
The Pakhan lies in the center of it all, reduced to nothing more than a husk of the man he once was.
Six months in a coma has stripped Anatoly Belov of his power. His once-imposing frame—broad-shouldered, thick with muscle—is now sunken, his skin stretched tight over sharp bones. His cheeks have hollowed, his temples caved inward. His hands, the same hands that built an empire, lie motionless atop the thin hospital sheet, the veins stark against waxy skin.
His beard, once trimmed with precise ruthlessness, has grown in uneven patches, more gray than black now. His lips are slightly parted, the faintest rasp of breath the only sign of life.
I remember a man of iron, a presence that demanded obedience. Now, the only thing keeping him tethered to this world is the slow, rhythmic beep of the monitor beside him.
I stand at the foot of the bed, my hands in my pockets, my jaw locked against the strange weight pressing against my ribs.
“He looks so thin.” The small voice comes from my right.
Alya. Her voice is low, but in the stillness of the room, it feels deafening. She stands closest to the bed, her small fingers gripping the fabric of her dress, eyes locked onto her grandfather’s frail form.
Filipp exhales sharply, his voice cutting through the silence like a dull blade. “He looks terrible.”
It’s not grief. Not concern. Just a performance. His arms are crossed, posture casual, but his gaze flickers—calculating, already looking past the man in the bed to the power that will shift when he’s gone.
“It’s expected,” Dr. Gurinov says.
I look at the doctor. He has the hollow-eyed sharpness of a man who’s seen too much of life slipping away under his hands. Thin, with silvering hair and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, he checks Anatoly’s vitals with the ease of a man who’s done this a thousand times. His suit is crisp, dark, out of place in a setting that stinks of sickness and death.
He flips through notes on his tablet. “Six months in a coma. His body is failing—organs shutting down, muscles wasted away. It’s happening faster than we anticipated. That’s why you’re here today, Mr. Belov. I suspect he has hours left. Maybe less.”
My children are quiet. Nikolai, next to his little sister, keeps his head up, shoulders squared, mimicking the posture I taught him. Lev shifts beside them, his hands curled into loose fists at his sides, his usual restless energy subdued.
They are watching. Learning.
I exhale slowly. “You’re sure?”
Gurinov doesn’t falter. “There’s nothing more we can do. His body is failing rapidly. At this point, it’s only a matter of time.”
Alya swallows hard, her grip tightening. I place a hand on her shoulder, grounding her. She doesn’t look at me; just keeps her eyes on the dying man in the bed.
There is a finality to this moment. A chapter closing. A legacy passing into the ground.
Gurinov adjusts my father’s IV drip, then glances at me. “Would you like a moment alone with him?”
I glance at the monitors, the slow, even line of his heartbeat. “No.”
I don’t need to say goodbye.
This man never taught me how to grieve him.
The doctor nods and steps back. My children say nothing. The room holds its breath.
And then—
A flicker.
A tremor.
A single movement.
One of my father’s fingers twitches. Just the smallest, almost imperceptible motion, but I see it.
I freeze. The doctor does, too. A second passes. Then another.
It happens again. The faintest jerk of his pinky, like a whisper against the sheets.
Alya gasps.
Gurinov’s brows knit together. “That’s…” He moves forward quickly, checking Anatoly’s pulse, his pupils. “That’s not possible.”
The machines beep steadily. No alarms. No sudden spikes. But I see it. Another movement. A twitch. A slow, deliberate breath.
I step closer, my pulse steady, my mind already calculating. “Doctor. Explain.”
Gurinov’s fingers shake slightly as he adjusts the oxygen mask. “I… I don’t know. This doesn’t make sense. The scans, the vitals—he shouldn’t be moving. He shouldn’t be…”
The room tightens. The air shifts.
My father’s chest rises a little deeper this time. A low, ragged sound escapes his throat, the first sound he’s made in half a year.
I meet Gurinov’s wide-eyed gaze.
A ragged breath rattles from my father’s chest. Then another. His fingers twitch again, this time with more purpose, the slow, deliberate movement of a man clawing his way back from the abyss.
The beeping of the machines shifts, the rhythm breaking. Not fading. Not stopping.
Changing.
Gurinov exhales sharply, his professionalism slipping for just a moment. “This… this shouldn’t be happening,” he mutters under his breath. He leans over the bed, checking my father’s pupils, his grip firm against the frail wrist. “His vitals… they’re stabilizing.”
Alya clutches my sleeve, eyes wide. “Papa… Dedushka is not dying?”
I stay quiet.
A sharp inhale from behind me. Not from my children. Not from the doctor.
Tatiana.
I don’t turn, but I feel her presence shift, the gasp barely restrained. She recovers fast but not fast enough. The room is no longer a deathbed vigil. It’s a battlefield. And she’s just realized the enemy isn’t dead.
Filipp stiffens beside her, his fingers clenching into fists before he relaxes them—calculated, controlled. His jaw flexes, eyes darting between the machines, the doctor, and me.
“This shouldn’t be possible,” Tatiana finally says, her voice smooth, perfectly composed. But I hear it. The crack beneath it. The unraveling of carefully laid plans.
“Doctor,” I say, my voice even. “Say it.”
Gurinov swallows, then straightens. “The Pakhan … he’s waking up.”
Silence.
Not the reverent, grief-heavy silence from before. No, this is something else entirely. Something raw. Something shifting.
Filipp exhales slowly, forcing a small, measured smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Well, that’s… unexpected.”
Tatiana’s nails click against her bracelet as she folds her hands in her lap. “A miracle, truly.”
Lies. Both of them.
I finally glance toward my mother.
Yelena Belov sits with her back straight, her hands still folded neatly in her lap. She does not react the way Tatiana does, no forced exclamation of shock or joy. Instead, her gaze flickers to my father—watching, measuring, waiting. Then, for just a breath of a second, her eyes meet mine. And in them, I see it.
A flicker of something rare.
Hope.
I feel my own pulse steady, the tightness in my chest shifting into something else. Something cold. Something sharp.
Pride.
Because my father? He’s a fucking fighter.
The machines beep again, a stronger rhythm now. My father’s eyelids flutter, a low, guttural sound rising from his throat. Gurinov leans over him, murmuring quick instructions to the nurses outside.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I exhale through my nose, reach for it, and finally check the screen. Two messages.
I read it. My lips twitch, a smirk pulling at the corner of my mouth.
I type something in response, hit send , and slip the phone back into my pocket.
Then I look up—at my father, at Tatiana and Filipp, the ones who had already prepared to take his place, at the war still waiting to be fought.
Let them scramble.
The game just changed.
Anatoly Belov is not dead.
Not yet.
The air inside the private lounge is thick with cigar smoke that lingers in the leather of the armchairs and the walls lined with dark wood. It’s an old-world establishment, the kind where deals are brokered behind closed doors, away from prying eyes.
Arseny sits across from me, his expression unreadable as he swirls the whiskey in his glass. Boris, ever the meticulous vulture, adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses and levels me with a look of disapproval, one he doesn’t bother to mask.
“We need to discuss your next step,” Boris begins, his voice clipped, sharp. “Your father’s recovery—if we can call it that—does not change the fact that you need a wife. Immediately.”
I lean back in my chair, fingers tapping against the armrest. “He’s waking up. That was the concern, wasn’t it? If he lives, the clause is irrelevant.”
Boris exhales through his nose, unimpressed. “Lives? That’s generous. He’s breathing, barely. Your father is in no condition to run the Bratva, let alone oversee Belov Global Holdings. You think the families will wait for him to regain his strength? You think Tatiana and Filipp will step aside and let you transition into power without opposition? They’ve been tightening their grip while he’s been unconscious, ensuring that when the time came, they’d be in control.”
Arseny sets his glass down with a quiet clink . “They’ve been making moves while the throne sat empty. Buying influence, securing allies. If you hesitate, they’ll use your father’s weakened state as leverage to cut you out.”
I already know this. I’ve known it from the second I saw the way Tatiana’s fingers tightened around her bracelet when my father twitched back to life.
Boris watches me carefully, waiting for me to argue. When I don’t, he presses on. “Your father’s decree still stands, Konstantin. Whether he wakes up or not, the marriage condition remains in place. You were supposed to be married within the year to solidify your claim. And now, with Anatoly unable to rule, you need that leverage more than ever.”
I let the silence stretch, watching the way Boris straightens his cuffs, the way his lips press into a thin line as if dealing with me is a chore. He doesn’t trust me to lead. Never has. He prefers Anatoly’s command, the old ways. But he also knows the only way to keep power within the Belov family is through me.
“We don’t have time to negotiate a new arrangement,” Arseny adds, his voice level but firm. “The longer you wait, the more ground Tatiana and Filipp gain. If you don’t act now, they’ll consolidate everything under their control before your father can so much as open his mouth to stop them.”
Boris nods, satisfied that at least one of us has sense. “The Belov Pakhan cannot be incapacitated. And he cannot be unwed. If your father is not fit to rule, you must be in full command. That means securing your position the way Anatoly intended—by taking a wife.”
I reach for my glass, rolling it between my fingers. This was always going to happen. My father’s survival didn’t change that.
“It’s already handled,” I say smoothly, taking a sip.
Boris tilts his head slightly, a hint of skepticism in his cold brown eyes. “Handled?”
A slow smirk tugs at my lips as I set the glass down. “I have a bride.”
Arseny raises a brow but says nothing. Boris, however, leans forward slightly, watching me like a man studying a contract for loopholes.
“Who?”
I don’t answer immediately. Instead, I let them sit with it, let them wonder. Then, finally—
“Isabella Marquez.”
Boris exhales sharply through his nose, adjusting his glasses. “The contract doesn’t specify she has to be Bratva. It only states you must be married. Legally, she qualifies.”
“A necessity,” I correct. “The families respect power, but they also respect control. She provides both.”
Arseny studies me for a moment before nodding. “Then we move forward. Fast. You’ll need to make it official before Tatiana and Filipp find a way to block it.”
Boris adjusts his glasses again, his disapproval still clear, but he nods. “Then we proceed. You’ll be married within the month.”
I lift my glass, swirling the amber liquid against the crystal before tipping it back. The burn trails down my throat, sharp and satisfying. Two weeks. The thought settles in, a quiet hum of anticipation beneath my ribs.
She’ll be mine.
Fully. Legally. Irrevocably.