Chapter 22 Konstantin
KONSTANTIN
The courtyard is quiet, save for the low hum of traffic beyond the gates and the occasional birdsong that breaks through the gray morning light.
It’s the kind of space meant to be calming—sterile planters, a manicured lawn, benches that have never seen real weather.
But even here, with Mila’s small hand curled around mine and her voice bright in the chill air, the weight on my chest refuses to ease.
“See that one?” she says, pointing to a cluster of droopy flowers near the bench. “That’s a sad flower. It looks like it needs juice.”
“Juice?” I arch a brow.
She nods seriously. “Apple juice. It helps me when I’m tired. Maybe it helps flowers too.”
I bite back a smile. “You might be onto something, zvezdochka.”
She releases my hand and bolts forward to kneel beside the bush, whispering to it like she’s sharing state secrets. I let her talk to the petals and pretend for a minute longer that everything’s okay.
That my son isn’t sick. That I’m not the reason.
That my world isn’t held together by threads, unraveling one by one.
Mila jumps up again. “Okay, I fixed it. I said something nice and gave it pretend juice. It smiled.”
“Of course it did.”
We keep walking. A few nurses pass us, one smiling warmly at Mila. She gives them a shy wave, then squeezes my hand again.
“Are you sad?” she asks suddenly.
I blink. “What makes you think that?”
“Because your face is doing that thing again. Like you ate a lemon and didn’t like it.”
I huff a laugh. “I guess I am a little sad.”
She looks up at me, thoughtful. “Is it ’cause of Kolya?”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “It’s because of Kolya.”
“I can fix him, right?” Her voice is small.
I kneel down in front of her. Her eyes are so big and bright and good, it nearly kills me.
“You might,” I say, brushing her hair behind her ear. “You might save his life.”
She beams. “Cool.”
The truth is, everything feels like it’s wilting. Me most of all.
We walk a little farther until she finds a bench she likes. I help her climb up, and she immediately swings her legs and starts counting ants on the pavement.
That’s when my phone buzzes.
Not Lev. Not the hospital. Anton.
I step aside to answer, already feeling tension rise in the back of my neck.
“What happened?” I ask, no pleasantries.
“It’s Staten Island,” Anton says. His voice is tight, rushed. “The deal went south. Bad.”
My whole body goes still. “What do you mean bad?”
“They were hit,” he says. “Three-man team. Maksim’s with them now. Two are down. One barely made it out. He’s en route to the safehouse.”
I clench my jaw, eyes fixed on the distance beyond the courtyard gates. “No one was supposed to know about that shipment. I changed the drop point yesterday.”
“I know. We only informed them an hour before go-time. There’s no way the leak came from our side—unless someone was already in place waiting.”
My pulse thuds hard behind my eyes. “Who?”
“We don’t know yet. But it wasn’t law enforcement.
“Which of ours?”
A pause.
“Sergei’s gone. Oleg too. Gleb made it out, but he’s a mess. Took a hit to the ribs, said they ambushed them before they even opened the trunk.”
Fuck.
I exhale slowly, trying to keep the rage from showing in my voice. “Where’s Yuri?”
“Already with Gleb. No one else knows. I’m keeping this quiet until you say otherwise.”
“Good,” I say. “Don’t move until I get there.”
“You got it, boss.”
I hang up and stare at my phone for a long second.
Sergei is dead. Oleg too.
A deal that should’ve been silent. Invisible. And someone still found them.
Which means someone’s feeding information. Someone close enough to know.
I turn toward Mila.
She’s humming to herself, now crouched on the bench to get a better look at a patch of clover growing between the cracks. Completely untouched by the storm gathering in my gut.
And that’s exactly how I want to keep it.
I school my face, walk back to her, and offer her my hand. “Ready to go find Mommy?”
She looks up with a bright smile. “Are we getting waffles again?”
“Not today, printsessa.”
“But you promised!” she gasps, pouting dramatically.
I chuckle—tired, but real—and lift her into my arms. “Then I guess I’ll just owe you. One big waffle. With extra syrup.”
She wraps her arms around my neck and leans her head on my shoulder. And as I carry her back toward the hospital, I make a silent vow.
Whoever’s leaking from inside my operation?
They won’t live long enough to explain why.
I carry Mila through the lobby, her cheek resting against my shoulder, one sticky hand clutching the collar of my shirt. She’s dozing now, the kind of soft, half-lidded sleep that only comes after a sugar crash and too much emotional energy.
Part of me doesn’t want to set her down.
Not just because she’s warm and weightless in my arms—but because the second I do, the other part of my life comes crashing back in.
I step into the hallway just outside Nikolai’s room and spot Nadya immediately.
She’s standing by the window, arms crossed, worry stitched into every angle of her face. Her eyes go first to Mila—relieved—and then to me, silent and searching.
I pass Mila gently into her arms. She stirs, mumbles something about waffles, and nestles into her mother’s neck.
Nadya’s gaze never leaves mine.
I clear my throat. “I need to leave for a few hours.”
Her expression hardens. “What now?”
There’s no malice in her voice, but I hear the exhaustion behind it. The strain. The quiet accusation she’s too tired to make out loud.
“I can’t explain it here.” I glance toward the hallway, making sure the kids aren’t listening. “But it’s serious. I wouldn’t leave otherwise.”
Nadya crosses her arms slowly, her jaw tight. “You’re leaving. Again.”
“It’s not a choice,” I say, softer this time. “Not really.”
She doesn’t reply right away. I see her weighing it—anger, exhaustion, and understanding all battling for control behind those dark eyes. She could explode. She doesn’t.
Instead, she breathes in through her nose. “Fine.”
“I’ve already called Lev,” I add. “He’ll be here in twenty minutes. He’s staying with you until I get back.”
At that, she stiffens. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”
“I know,” I say. “But you’re getting one anyway.”
There’s a pause.
Something in my tone must land differently, because her eyes flicker. She doesn’t argue again, not out loud. She’s not stupid. She knows if I’m sending Lev, it’s not just paranoia.
Something’s wrong.
“I don’t like this,” she says under her breath.
“I don’t either,” I admit.
And that’s the truth.
If I had a choice, I’d stay here. I’d sit in the corner of that sterile room and hold Nikolai’s hand while he sleeps. I’d watch Mila eat vending machine crackers and fight to keep her crayon drawings within the lines. I’d be the man she deserves at her side. The father they both need.
But I’m the man who brought enemies with him.
And right now, those enemies are too close.
“You’ll call me?” she asks.
“As soon as I have something to say.” I reach out, brushing a knuckle down her arm, just a whisper of contact. “Don’t leave the hospital until I say. Don’t go anywhere without Lev. No arguments.”
Her jaw tightens, but she nods.
Not for me. For the kids.
I take one last look at them—Mila humming softly beside the vending machine, Nadya standing tall even when the ground is shifting beneath her feet—and then I turn and walk away.
Every step feels like a betrayal, but I don’t look back.
Because if I do, I won’t leave.
And right now, staying would be the biggest mistake of all.
I’m already halfway to Staten Island by the time I make the call.
The tires hum over the bridge, city stretched wide and indifferent on either side, and still—every inch between me and the hospital feels heavier than steel. I shouldn’t have left like that. Not without saying more. Not without giving Lev the heads-up.
I press the call button anyway.
He answers immediately. “What,” Lev snaps. “You left?”
I can hear the echo of the hospital lobby behind him—the soft murmur of a nurse’s station, a distant child crying, the too-clean stillness of a place meant to hold bad news gently.
“I’m on my way to the warehouse,” I say. “Had to move fast.”
Silence.
“I’m in the goddamn lobby, Kon. You left without telling me?”
“I didn’t have time.”
“You didn’t have time?” His voice is low and dangerously steady.
I grip the wheel tighter. “I didn’t want to pull you away from them. Not right now.”
“I’m not asking for a goddamn invitation to tea.
I’m your second,” he bites out. “You walk into a blood-soaked warehouse on your own, after a deal like that went sideways, you’re asking to get buried.
And don’t feed me that I-can-handle-myself bullshit.
We’ve lost men, Kon. Good ones. That could’ve been you. ”
My silence stretches too long.
“Someone set us up,” I finally say. “They knew our drop. They knew our route. This isn’t small-time. It’s internal, or someone we’ve let too close. I need to see it for myself.”
“And you think going solo into a slaughter scene is smart? That you walking in there alone won’t make you a fucking target too?”
“I need eyes on the scene, now.”
“I should be there.”
“No,” I say sharply. “You stay with Nadya. With the kids. You protect them.”
“Even if that means you don’t come back?”
I exhale slowly. “Yes.”
“Fuck that,” he snaps, voice raw now. “You think I’m gonna sit on my ass in a hospital lobby while someone puts a bullet in your back? I’m coming.”
“No,” I repeat, firmer this time. “One of us stays with them. And it can’t be me.”
There’s a long pause. I can hear his breathing through the line, tight and strained, like he’s pacing.
Then, finally, he says, “Fine. But this conversation isn’t over.”
I end the call before I can change my mind.
The warehouse is quiet when I pull up. Too quiet.
No sirens. No cleanup crew. Just Yuri’s SUV out back and the lingering metallic scent of blood in the air.
Inside, the place looks like a war zone.
One crate is still partially intact, splintered open, the contents missing. Bullet casings litter the floor. Scorch marks paint the edges of the loading dock.
I walk through the carnage slowly, taking it all in.
Up in the surveillance office, I sift through the footage.
The exterior feed blacks out a minute before the hit.
The interior shows a ghost unit moving through the hallway—four men, full gear, visors down, no insignia. They’re in and out in under three minutes. One of them reaches for the camera right before the footage cuts.
I push away from the surveillance monitors and head back downstairs. My footsteps echo against concrete walls smeared with shadows and old bloodstains, leaving me acutely aware of how close death brushed by last night.
Maksim waits by the door, tense and silent. Next to him stands Yuri, our medic—face grim, eyes heavy from lack of sleep.
“Where’s Gleb?” I ask.
“Still breathing,” Yuri answers. “He’s in the side room.”
I nod once, stride quickly across the floor, and push open the door to the small breakroom turned medical station. Gleb sits slumped in a chair, shirtless, a bloody bandage taped roughly across his ribs. His face is pale beneath fresh bruises, a deep gash slicing over his eyebrow.
He sees me, and immediately tries to straighten.
“Stay seated,” I say quietly. “Tell me exactly what you saw.”
He swallows hard, wincing as he shifts his weight. “We got here right on time. Sergei checked perimeter—said all clear. Then the door opened, no force, nothing. Like they fucking owned the place.”
“Four men,” I prompt. “Masks. Professional gear.”
Gleb nods slowly. “Military-grade everything. They knew exactly where to hit, who to drop first. Didn’t even give Sergei time to reach his weapon.”
I turn on my heels, leave Gleb without another word, and stalk back into the main warehouse floor.
“Maksim, Yuri,” I bark. “Who else knew about the location change?”
Yuri shakes his head instantly. “Just inner circle. No one beyond me, Anton, Maksim, and you.”
“Then someone else was listening,” I say coldly. “Any anomalies recently—strange calls, messages, new contacts?”
Maksim stiffens suddenly. “Wait. Yesterday morning, Sergei got a call from some woman—he stepped out to take it. I asked who it was after, but he just said family. It seemed harmless.”
“Sergei didn’t have family,” Yuri interrupts, his voice tense. “At least none he ever spoke to.”
I rub my jaw. “Sergei’s phone,” I say, turning back to Gleb. “Do you have it?”
Gleb reaches slowly into the duffel bag at his feet, fingers trembling slightly. He pulls out a scuffed, cracked phone and hands it to me without a word.
I take it, my thumb already flicking across the screen, bypassing the lock with the override code we had in place for all trusted units.
Call history.
One number—marked only as Unknown—was dialed yesterday at 10:42 a.m. Exactly forty-five minutes before Sergei left the perimeter check and fifteen hours before he died.
I tap it.
The line rings once. Then again.
Then—
“Hello?” a woman answers. Her voice is calm. Steady. Not young, but not old either.
I lean against the desk and pitch my voice casual, non-threatening. “Hi, sorry to bother you. I think I’ve got the wrong number—I was trying to reach a friend. Sergei.”
Pause.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t know a Sergei.”
Interesting.
“Strange,” I say. “He told me to reach him here. Said you could help me if he wasn’t answering.”
Another pause—shorter this time. “I think you’ve been misinformed.”
“I don’t think so,” I say.
She doesn’t respond immediately.
And then—soft, off-mic—I hear another voice. Low. Male. Teasing.
“Come to bed, Ivana.”
The hairs on the back of my neck rise.
Not just the name.
The voice. Familiar in a way that makes my blood go still. Intimate, indulgent, slow like molasses and poison.
Roman.
“Forget the phone,” he says again, closer now. “You said you’d make it up to me, kroshka.”
I end the call instantly, thumb slamming against the screen, like killing the line might kill the echo of his voice in my skull.
But it doesn’t.
It lingers.
My blood is boiling now—pulsing hot, every heartbeat louder than the last. I can feel it building behind my ribs, tight and sharp like a blade waiting to be drawn.
Roman.
He did this.
He played Sergei. Used Ivana like a pawn—no, like a weapon. Lured Sergei in, dangled something just out of reach, just believable enough to make a seasoned soldier second-guess himself.
Roman’s not my brother anymore.
He’s a target.
And I’m going to find him.
I’m going to drag him out of whatever silk-sheeted den he’s hiding in, tear down every layer of protection he’s built, and make him understand that this time, there is no escape.
He wanted a war?
He’s going to get one.
But it’s going to be on my terms.
And it’s going to end with him on his knees.