Chapter 12 Konstantin
KONSTANTIN
The call isn’t long. Just a quick, tense update from one of our contacts in Koreatown about a deal Dmitry’s been circling for weeks. I barely listen.
By the time I hang up, I’m already thinking about what to say to Nadya next. Something to close the gap she left open on that terrace. Something that might make her look at me like she did just before she said she hated this world—not like I was part of it, but like I might be something else.
But when I turn around—
She’s gone.
The terrace is empty—no footsteps, no trace of her perfume on the air. Just the hush of distant traffic and the low thrum of the party behind the double doors.
I scan the corners, expecting to see her leaned over the railing, maybe pacing somewhere just out of view.
Nothing.
I walk to the edge of the terrace, glance down the side path, past the row of garden sconces.
Still nothing.
That’s strange. She didn’t say anything about leaving. Didn’t look like she was done talking. If she’d been pulled away by someone, I would’ve heard them. If she’d needed space, she would’ve said—
Or would she?
There’s a narrow corridor just off the terrace, winding back toward the ballroom. Maybe she slipped inside again.
Still, something doesn’t sit right.
My gut twitches.
She wouldn’t have gone back in there without telling me.
I head back inside, and the ballroom hits like a wave—noise, heat, perfume, music. The chandelier pulses gold overhead. People are laughing, drinking, pretending they’re not part of the rot holding this city together.
I move through the crowd slowly, eyes scanning faces, corners, exits. Still no sign of her.
Then I hear it. Near the bar. Low voices, a burst of laughter. Something said just loud enough to rise above the music.
“—tight little thing, isn’t she? Hell, I was ready to outbid him that night. Should’ve pulled the trigger. I bet she still cries when you—”
My body stops moving. Just freezes in place.
That voice.
Kirov.
I turn. He’s there, leaning against the bar like he owns it, drink in hand, sweat shining on his forehead. He’s talking to some pale, rat-faced man I’ve seen lingering around Dmitry’s circle. Both of them are laughing.
He doesn’t see me coming.
I walk up, slow and deliberate, and then I hit him.
Hard.
The crunch of cartilage under my fist is deeply satisfying. Kirov staggers back, crashing into the bar with a grunt, his drink shattering beside him.
“Konst—what the fuck—!”
I don’t answer.
I punch him again.
Once in the gut, once across the jaw. He drops, wheezing. I grab him by the collar, haul him back up, and slam his back into the bar hard enough that a few glasses topple nearby.
The music falters. Someone gasps. People are turning.
I lean in close, my voice calm, razor-sharp. “Mention her name again, and I’ll break your jaw for real next time. Got it?”
Blood trickles from his nose. He nods, wide-eyed and stunned.
I let go, and he crumples to the floor.
I don’t look back as I walk away, fists still clenched, heart pounding.
Where the hell did she go?
I walk away without looking back.
Behind me, Kirov is wheezing on the floor, blood on his teeth and panic in his eyes. His little friend has disappeared, probably slithering off into the crowd to whisper what just happened to anyone who will listen.
I adjust the front of my shirt as I move through the room, rolling my shoulders once. There’s blood on my cuff. I wipe it clean with my thumb.
People part as I pass. Some look away. A few pretend not to have seen anything. But most of them stare. Not in open challenge—no one here’s that stupid—but with wide eyes and thin smiles that say everything they’re too cowardly to voice.
That’s right. Remember me. Remember what happens when you lay hands—or thoughts—on what’s mine.
I spot Lev near the far wall, speaking to one of the security staff. His eyes track me the second I cross into the next room, his expression hardening as he takes in my pace, the tension rolling off me.
“What the hell happened?” he asks under his breath as I reach him.
“She’s gone,” I say.
His face goes still. “What do you mean, gone?”
I glance around, scanning every hallway, every corner, already knowing the answer.
“She slipped out,” I mutter. “While I was on the phone. I thought she was coming back. She didn’t.”
Lev frowns. “You think someone took her?”
“No,” I snap. “I think she left.”
He blinks once, then says what we’re both thinking. “Where the hell would she go?”
We push out through the side exit into the night air. The door clicks shut behind us, swallowing the noise of the party like a lid sealing on something rotting.
I already have my phone out, dialing her.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
No answer. Straight to voicemail.
I don’t say anything. I just hang up and dial again. The same silence. The same void.
Lev stands beside me, scanning the narrow garden path that curves around the side of the building, bordered by hedges and lit only by scattered ground lights.
“Maybe she just needed air,” he says. “Did she say anything to you?”
“No.”
And she would’ve.
Wouldn’t she?
He starts walking ahead, and I follow, something tightening in my chest with every step.
Then Lev stops abruptly. There, half-hidden near the base of a trimmed hedge, something lies in the dirt.
One heel. Red silk strap. Broken at the buckle.
My stomach drops.
Lev crouches and picks it up slowly, turning it over in his hand. “She was wearing this tonight, yeah?”
I nod once.
He looks at me, then gives me that little smile of his—the one that never really reaches his eyes. “Maybe she ran to someone. A boyfriend?”
The words hang in the air like a slap.
I don’t respond.
Can’t.
Because the thought sinks in quick and ugly, coiling inside my chest, wrapping around my ribs.
Another man? Is that why she left?
Someone else she’d risk her safety for.
Someone who could make her run without looking back.
I clench my jaw hard enough that I taste blood.
“No,” I say finally. “She wouldn’t.”
I just don’t know why I believe it.
For a second, I think about calling Pyotr.
But I know better.
That snake wouldn’t give me the truth even if it bled from his gums. And worse, if he doesn’t know she’s gone yet, I’m not about to tip him off.
Lev shifts beside me, still holding her shoe in his lap like some kind of token. “You want to go looking for her?” he asks, voice low.
I don’t answer right away.
My jaw clenches. My throat’s dry.
I can’t shake the image of her sneaking out for someone else.
Finally, I murmur, “I don’t know.”
Lev gives me a look, that sideways glance he only pulls when he thinks I’ve lost my mind, but he doesn’t argue.
“Let’s go home,” I say.
He sighs under his breath, tosses the heel onto the dash, and turns toward the car.
We ride in silence. City lights flicker past the tinted windows. My phone sits dead in my hand. Still nothing from her. No answers. No explanations.
Just silence.
Lev doesn’t speak. He knows me well enough by now. He can see the war happening behind my eyes even if I don’t say a word.
I stare out the window, watching the city move. Lights blur. Neon signs blink like they’re trying to spell out answers I don’t have. Somewhere out there, she’s moving too.
Nadya.
I shouldn’t care this much. I barely know her.
She was part of a transaction. A means to an end. I thought she was starting to trust me. But trust…trust is dangerous. It’s the lie we tell ourselves so we can sleep at night. It’s the thing people sell in exchange for power. For safety. For survival.
My father taught me that trust is for men too weak to control the world around them. And he was always right about one thing—when you start to trust someone, that’s when they destroy you.