31. Chapter 31
31
Bella
T he SUV pulls away from the curb,leaving me stranded on the sidewalk like some tacky delivery that’s been dropped at the wrong address. Fifteen minutes. That’s all it took to go from finding out I’m marrying into the fucking Russian mafia to being whisked away to… wherever the hell this is.
I stand frozen, staring up at the sleek glass facade of what’s clearly the kind of restaurant where they don’t list prices on the menu. Because if you have to ask, you definitely can’t afford it.
My reflection stares back at me from the tinted windows—hair slightly disheveled, white blouse wrinkled from where I’d frantically yanked it on, jean shorts that suddenly feel as appropriate as showing up to a funeral in a bikini. I didn’t even have time to grab proper clothes. The moment Natasha handed me something to wear, Tweedledee and Tweedledum (or, as Konstantin probably calls them, “security personnel”) were already waiting to escort me.
The same two mountains of muscle who were watching meat breakfast with Elena last time. Because of course they were.
How did I not notice them then? How did I miss every. Single. Red. Flag?
I’m a realtor, for God’s sake. I’m supposed to notice details.
"This way, Miss Marquez.” The larger of the two men gestures toward the entrance with a hand that could probably crush my skull like an overripe melon.
“You know what? I just remembered I have a dentist appointment,” I say, taking a step back. “Root canal. Very painful. Rain check?”
The man doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink. Just stares at me with the emotional range of a brick wall.
“Mr. Belov is expecting you.”
Of course he is. Probably sitting on a throne made of the bones of people who’ve tried to back out of deals with him.
I glance around, calculating my chances. Run? In these shoes, with these two chasing me? I’d make it about half a block before they’d drag me back, probably by my ankles. Scream? In this neighborhood, people would just assume I’m filming some avant-garde perfume commercial.
I’m trapped. Completely, utterly trapped.
I take a deep breath. One problem at a time, Bella. First, survive dinner. Then figure out how to get out of marrying a fucking mob boss.
The Imperium isn’t the kind of place where people just “grab dinner.”
It’s where billionaires and criminals negotiate power plays over entrées that could finance a small startup.
A place where conversation is currency, traded in low, deliberate tones. Where exclusivity thickens the air, and the walls were designed not just to keep secrets in but to make sure the rest of the world never even suspects they exist.
I don’t belong here.
And yet, the moment I step inside, the head waiter glides toward me, all effortless grace and European indifference, dressed so sharply I’m surprised he hasn’t cut himself. He’s so polished he could double as a human Rolex—sleek, expensive, and completely out of my budget.
He doesn’t ask my name. Of course, he doesn’t. Men like him don’t ask. They just know.
“Right this way, Ms. Marquez,” he says, smoothly sweeping an arm toward the back like I’m royalty.
My name sounds different here. Heavier. More expensive. Like I’m already part of the machinery.
I keep my chin up, my shoulders back. I’ve walked into war zones before—family courtrooms, real estate boardrooms, meetings where men in expensive suits tried to dismantle my future one legal technicality at a time.
But nothing, nothing, prepares me for him.
Konstantin Belov.
Seated at the back, near floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the city skyline, he doesn’t just occupy space—he claims it. The candle light cuts across his face, all sharp angles and shadows, turning him into something just shy of myth. His posture is relaxed, but that’s the worst part—he doesn’t have to posture. He already owns the room.
And then, his gaze lands on me.
That impossible shade of smoke-washed blue, a color that seems to shift with the light—or the danger level. He drags his gaze over me from head to toe. Not a glance. Not a casual once-over.
A diagnosis .
Like he’s cataloging weaknesses, assessing the threat level, deciding whether I’m worth his time or just another pawn in whatever game he’s playing.
Something in my stomach tightens. Annoyance? Anxiety?
No, it’s worse. Anticipation.
Then, he stands.
Slowly. A wall of tailored power unfolding to his full, unfairly large height. It’s an old-fashioned move—rising as a woman approaches the table—but from him, it feels like something else entirely.
A statement.
A warning.
You will sit at my table. You will listen to what I say.
My pulse betrays me for a half-second, my breath catching like it’s trying to keep up. I hate that my body reacts before my brain can tell it to calm the hell down.
I take the last step forward and grip the back of the chair before he can do it for me. It’s petty, a meaningless act of defiance, but his eyes flick to my fingers curled around the wood, and I swear, for the briefest moment—he almost smirks.
He is fucking enjoying this.
Like he’s amused by the fact that I think I have a choice.
I sit.
He follows.
Neither of us speaks immediately. The silence stretches between us like something physical, something I could reach out and snap with my fingertips if I were brave enough. Instead, I focus on the menu—leather-bound, heavy enough to use as a weapon in a pinch. The prices are conspicuously absent, which means everything costs more than the legal fight to keep my family home—and that involved actual blood.
A waiter materializes at my elbow, appearing so suddenly that I nearly jump out of my skin.
“May I offer you something to drink, madam?” His accent is crisp, European, like he was imported, along with the wine list.
“Vodka,” I blurt out. “The strongest you have. Actually, just bring the bottle.”
The waiter’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers behind his eyes—amusement or judgment, I can’t tell which.
“The lady will have water,” Konstantin counters smoothly. His voice is that perfect blend of polite and commanding that rich people seem born knowing how to use. “And I’ll have the Macallan 25.”
Jerk .
The waiter nods and vanishes, taking my liquid courage with him.
I narrow my eyes at Konstantin. “I don’t recall asking for a designated driver.”
“You’ll need a clear head for this conversation.”
“Oh, will I? Well, gee , you think?” I lean forward, dropping my voice to a hissing whisper. “Maybe I needed a clear head before I signed up to marry a man who neglected to mention he’s the head of the Russian fucking mafia?”
I can feel my pulse in my fingertips, in my throat. My face burns with a cocktail of fear and rage and something dangerously close to humiliation.
“Are you kidding me? Bratva ?”
The words leave my mouth too fast, too sharp, louder than they should be. The moment they hit the air, I wish I could take them back.
The shift.
The hush.
A subtle ripple through the restaurant as the few people close enough to hear make the collective decision to pretend they didn’t. Because in a place like The Imperium, discretion isn’t just a courtesy—it’s survival.
My stomach drops. I inhale fast, lower my voice to a whisper.
“ Bratva ?”
Across from me, Konstantin snorts.
Like this is funny.
Like I didn’t just find out that I’ve been bartered into a fucking crime syndicate marriage for the low price of one family home and a couple of tuition payments.
“I heard you when you shouted the first time.” He lifts his whiskey to his lips, taking a slow sip. “No need to repeat yourself.”
I stare at him, my eye twitching. “I— Are you—are you actually laughing right now?”
He doesn’t deny it. That’s the worst part.
I slap a palm onto the table hard enough to rattle the silverware. “What part of ‘ I didn’t realize I was selling my soul to the Russian mob ’ is amusing to you?”
He exhales through his nose—not quite a laugh, but close enough that I want to throw something.
“Isabella,” he says, slow and deliberate, like he’s explaining something simple to a child, “do you really think you would’ve been able to get what you wanted from a man like me if I were just another businessman?”
I open my mouth. Shut it.
Because that’s the problem, isn’t it?
I didn’t ask.
I didn’t ask what he was.
I was too busy begging him to save my family home, too desperate to get Julian and Lila out from under my uncle’s control.
And now?
Now I’m knee-deep in Bratva bullshit, legally bound to a man who considers love a liability and emotions a waste of time.
I drop my forehead into my hand. “Oh, my God.”
Konstantin just watches me. Patient. Detached. Like he has all the time in the world to let me come to terms with my own stupidity.
The waiter appears again, setting down our drinks with silent precision.
“Are we ready to order?” he asks, pen poised over his little notepad like we’re about to dictate world peace.
“Give us a moment,” Konstantin says without looking at him.
The waiter hesitates, his gaze darting between us. I must look like I’m about to combust. “Perhaps I could recommend the—”
“A moment,” Konstantin repeats, and there’s a new edge to his voice that makes the waiter practically evaporate on the spot.
Then, smoothly, he says, “Your siblings are in one of the best private schools in the country. Paid in full. Tuition, housing, security, extra curriculars. Anything they need, they get.”
I stop breathing.
He doesn’t.
“And your family home?” he continues, swirling his drink lazily. “Yours. Free and clear. No debts. No legal loopholes. No threats of repossession.”
My heart thumps, heavy and slow.
He sets his glass down. Taps the rim once, deliberately.
“I keep my promises.”
The words hit me harder than I expect.
Because they’re true.
I swallow the lump in my throat.
“Wow,” I say, my voice brittle. “That’s so reassuring. It’s great to know my husband keeps his promises when those promises involve me being legally bound to a literal fucking mafia kingpin.”
His lips twitch, and I want to scream.
“How generous of you, Konstantin,” I snap, “to inform me that my house belongs to me after you’ve made sure I belong to you.”
That erases the amusement from his face.
There’s something else now. Something I can’t place.
“Would you have rather kept fighting?” he asks, voice dangerously low. “Would you have rather drained your accounts, lost everything, watched your uncle sell your childhood home out from under you?”
I clench my jaw so hard my teeth ache.
Because that’s the worst part.
The absolute worst part.
If he hadn’t stepped in?
I would have lost.
Everything.
Another waiter approaches our table, this one younger, more nervous than the first.
“Excuse me, sir, madam, Chef has prepared a special amuse-bouche for—”
“Not now,” we snap in unison, our voices colliding in perfect, irritated harmony.
The poor guy freezes, eyes wide, tray clutched to his chest like a shield.
For a fraction of a second, Konstantin and I lock eyes across the table. Something passes between us—a spark of shared frustration, a momentary bond in our mutual annoyance. Almost like we’re on the same side.
The thought is so absurd I nearly laugh.
The waiter backs away slowly, like he’s trying not to startle a pair of wild animals.
I push back from the table, suddenly too hot, too trapped, too fucking done.
“No,” I breathe, shaking my head. “No, I can’t do this.”
I stand too fast. My chair scrapes against the floor. A few heads turn—not many, but enough to make my skin prickle.
Konstantin?
He doesn’t move.
Just watches.
Waits.
Like he already knows.
I spin toward the exit—
And then, his voice hits me like a bullet.
“You think you can walk away?”
I freeze.
Every hair on my arms stands on end.
The way he says it—calm, casual, inevitable—makes my pulse jump to my throat.
I turn back slowly.
Konstantin exhales, sets his drink down, and rises.
It’s slow. Unhurried.
But suddenly, he’s there.
Towering. Blocking my exit.
I take a step back.
I hit the wall.
His hands come up, bracing on either side of my head—not touching me, but caging me in.
I feel him everywhere.
The heat of his body. The scent of smoke and something darker.
The sheer weight of him, suffocating and steady and utterly immovable.
“It’s too late,” he murmurs, voice like a slow, creeping tide.
I shove against his chest, but he doesn’t budge. Not an inch.
I glare up at him, furious, breathless, fucking drowning. “You can’t just keep me here.”
His lips curve. Just slightly. Just enough.
“No?” His voice is low, dark, amused. “Tell me, Isabella—where exactly would you go?”
My stomach drops.
Because he’s right.
There is no out.
There’s just this.
Him.
Us.
This moment, stretching, pressing, suffocating.
I gasp, suddenly, sharply aware of how close he is—of the way his gaze drops to my lips, lingers.
And then—
He kisses me.
Hard.
No warning. No hesitation.
His mouth is all dominance, all mine, forcing my lips apart, stealing the air from my lungs.
I gasp, but it only gives him room to deepen the kiss, his fingers tangling in my hair, angling my head exactly where he wants it.
He tastes like fire and control. Like a promise and a threat all at once.
Something snaps inside me.
The shock. The fear. The fury. It all crystalizes into a single, perfect moment of clarity.
I’m not his. Not yet.
My hand moves before my brain can stop it.
CRACK!
The sound of my palm connecting with his cheek echoes through the restaurant like a gunshot.
Complete silence falls.
Wine glasses freeze midair. Conversations die mid-sentence. The entire restaurant holds its breath.
Konstantin doesn’t move. Not a twitch.
But his eyes— God , his eyes. They shift from smoke-blue to something darker, colder.
The color of a storm about to break.
The color of violence barely contained.
My hand stings. My heart hammers so hard I’msure everyone can hear it.
I just slapped the Supreme Lord of Murder and Mood Swings in public. With witnesses. And pastries.
I’m so completely, utterly fucked .
For one terrifying moment, I think he might kill me right here, right now, white table cloths be damned.
Instead, a muscle jumps in his jaw. His gaze holds mine, burning with something that makes my knees weak.
Then he smiles.
It’s not a nice smile.
It’s the kind of smile that says he’s already planning exactly how he’ll make me pay for this. The kind that promises retribution in ways I can’t even imagine.
His fingers grip my chin, gentle yet in escapable.
“The wedding is happening. Tomorrow, you become mine.” His voice drops to a whisper, meant for me alone. “Sleep well, Isabella.”