Chapter 28 Konstantin
KONSTANTIN
Nikolai’s room is unusually quiet. The beeping machines are steady, rhythmic. Lev stands by the window, arms folded, while Nadya sits beside the bed, her hand brushing through Nikolai’s damp curls. He’s finally resting, fever broken but not gone, his little body still too warm under the blankets.
There’s a knock at the door.
A nurse peeks her head in. “Mr. Buryakov? The specialist from Belarus just landed. He’s agreed to meet you today, but it has to be in person. He’s on a tight schedule.”
I blink. Right—the geneticist. We pushed for him through every back channel we had, someone who’s supposedly run rare-case marrow donor matches using family legacy markers.
The kind of man who can sniff out a long-lost second cousin match with three drops of blood and an outdated record from a rural archive.
The catch? He won’t step foot in a hospital. Paranoia, Lev said. Or ego. Either way, he’s waiting at a private clinic halfway across town.
I shake my head immediately. “I’m not leaving. Not while Dmitry’s men are around.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“That’s taken care of,” Nadya says, too casually.
Both Lev and I turn toward her.
“How?” I ask, frowning.
“I talked to Alexei.”
My blood stills. “You did what?”
“He was here,” she says, standing now, voice even. “We talked. He promised to pull the men back.”
I stare at her, trying to process that. “You trust him?”
“I didn’t say I trust him,” she replies. “But I believe him. There’s a difference.”
“Wow,” Lev mutters, letting out a low whistle. “Well, she’s right. I’ve had my own people watching the hospital since that little visit from your father. There’s no sign of Dmitry’s men anymore. Not a car. Not a shadow. They’re gone.”
I exhale slowly, jaw tight. It’s not relief I feel—it’s the unsettling sense of control slipping through my fingers. First Alexei waltzes in, now Nadya’s negotiating peace treaties behind my back. I should be angry. I am angry. But I can’t deny what matters—Nikolai needs that consultation.
I glance at my son, small and fragile against the mountain of wires and linens.
“We go. We don’t waste the chance,” I say, forcing the words through clenched teeth.
Nadya nods, already grabbing her coat.
The city moves past us in a blur of washed-out buildings and blinking traffic lights. Nadya drives like she does everything else—with focus, with fire. One hand on the wheel, the other ready to shift, her mouth set in that stubborn line I’ve come to recognize as both beautiful and dangerous.
I haven’t said a word since we left the hospital.
She glances sideways at me. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m thinking.”
“That’s new.”
I smirk faintly, but she doesn’t let it drop.
“You don’t like that I spoke to Alexei.”
It’s not a question. She says it flat and straight, eyes forward, tone unreadable.
I turn to her, studying her profile—the elegant curve of her neck, the tension in her shoulders. “Actually,” I say, watching her shift gears, “that’s not entirely true.”
Her hand slips off the stick and returns to the wheel, but I cover it for a moment before she moves. Just long enough for her to feel it.
“I’m pissed, for sure. But I also trust you,” I say quietly.
She exhales, like I’ve let air into a room she didn’t know she was holding her breath in. I feel it—the shift in the atmosphere, like a door creaking open.
“You trust me,” she repeats, like she’s weighing the words against her own instincts.
“More than I trust myself most days,” I admit. “And that scares the shit out of me.”
She exhales through her nose, but I catch the way her grip loosens on the wheel. She’s relieved. I hadn’t realized she needed to hear that.
“Still,” I add, “if he so much as breathes wrong near you or the kids, I’ll gut him.”
“There’s the man I married,” she mutters under her breath.
I chuckle low in my throat. “You married a lunatic, sweetheart.”
She flicks her eyes to the side, amused. “Good. I wouldn’t survive the boring kind.”
She lets out a sound—half laugh, half sigh—and then it turns quiet again. The kind of quiet that isn’t awkward, but weighty. Like there’s something she’s holding in, trying to decide if it’s worth saying aloud.
“I wish we had a real ceremony,” she says, barely louder than the hum of the engine.
I glance at her, not quite sure I heard her right. “You mean…at the church?”
She gives a small shake of her head, eyes fixed on the road like she’s regretting opening her mouth at all. “Forget it. It’s a silly thought.”
But it’s not.
I turn more fully toward her, one arm draped across the back of her seat. “You mean you wanted all of it? The flowers. The vows. The dress. The slow first dance we’d both pretend not to hate?”
She smiles faintly but doesn’t meet my eyes. “I’m not the wedding type, Konstantin. I don’t even know what made me say it.”
But I do. I can feel it, because it hits the same hollow space in my chest I never knew existed until she filled it.
The way we got married—it wasn’t nothing.
But it wasn’t what she deserved. Not a ceremony.
Not a moment that was just about her. About us.
Without blood in the background or threats on the horizon.
“I’m not the wedding type either,” I say slowly, “but if I could do it again…”
She looks at me now, the road forgotten, her eyes searching mine.
“I’d give you the real thing,” I say. “Church bells, vows, your name echoing off stained glass if that’s what you want.”
I rest my hand lightly on her thigh. “It’s not a silly thought, Nadya. Not to me.”
By the time we pull up to the clinic, the sun is already angling westward, casting long shadows across the sterile white facade. Nadya parks, killing the engine, and we walk in together, the silence between us not heavy, but alert—both of us on edge in ways we don’t have to speak aloud anymore.
The lobby is quiet, too quiet. A single receptionist sits behind the desk, clicking something into the system with half-hearted attention. When she sees us, she straightens up, smoothing her blouse like we’re here for a photo op.
“We’re here to see Dr. Levin,” I say, calm but firm.
Her fingers pause on the keyboard. “Oh. He just left.”
Nadya and I exchange a glance. I step forward. “What do you mean just left?”
She frowns. “I mean…he walked out maybe five minutes ago. Didn’t say where he was going. Just packed up and left.”
“That’s not possible,” Nadya says. “We were just down the road. He knew we were coming.”
“He didn’t say anything. Just grabbed his things and walked out.” The receptionist shrugs like it’s above her pay grade to care.
I don’t wait for Nadya to catch up. I’m already turning on my heel and heading out the glass doors, eyes scanning the rows of parked cars in the adjacent lot. There—white coat, hunched shoulders, waiting by the side of the road.
“Dr. Levin!” I call out, loud enough to make him flinch.
He freezes mid-step, and when he turns, his expression says it all—guilt, fear, the same tight grimace I’ve seen on men one second before they piss themselves.
“Wait,” I say, striding up to him. “What the hell is going on? We had an appointment.”
He freezes. “Look—I don’t want any trouble, alright?”
Nadya is just behind me, quiet and watchful, arms crossed.
“You’re already in trouble,” I say, slow and clear, “if you think walking out without seeing my son is going to sit well with me.”
“I—I’m sorry,” he stammers, his keys trembling in his hand. “I didn’t know what else to do. I was told—someone said it’d be in my best interest if I left town. That I shouldn’t get involved.”
My jaw clenches. “Who?”
“I don’t know!” he says quickly, too quickly. “I just got a call last night. Voice modulated, maybe recorded. They said they knew where my daughter went to school. I have a family.”
“So do I,” I say, stepping closer. “And one of them is lying in a hospital bed right now, running a fever while you run scared.”
His eyes dart to Nadya, then back to me. He’s panicking.
Dmitry.
It has his fingerprints all over it—the quiet pressure, the veiled threat, the way he always targets the softest point.
“Look,” Dr. Levin continues, swallowing, “I don’t want trouble. I didn’t even pack a bag, I’m just—”
“You’re not leaving,” I interrupt, stepping closer. “You’re coming with us.”
He recoils. “What? No, I told you—”
“I have a private safe house.” My voice is cold now, measured. “Secure, untraceable. There’s a launch pad and my own security team. You won’t be touched. You’ll do your job and then I’ll get you out of the country. You’ll never hear from any of us again.”
He hesitates, eyes flicking toward Nadya as she approaches. Her presence seems to calm him slightly, like maybe he’s realizing we’re not the monsters he imagined.
“You promise?”
“I don’t make promises,” I say. “But I do keep my word.”
He finally nods, small and jerky.
We start walking back to the car, and I slip my hand into Nadya’s for just a second.
Her voice is quiet when she says, “You think it’s your father?”
I don’t answer immediately. I don’t need to.
Because we both know the answer.
Of course it is.
The warehouse is tucked between a lumber yard and a dry shipping depot on the south edge of the city—half-forgotten industrial stretch that’s useful exactly because no one pays attention to it.
On the outside, it’s just rusting metal walls and a dented roller shutter with a number stenciled on in peeling white paint.
But inside, I’ve had it rebuilt from the ground up—reinforced concrete core, surveillance blind zones, Faraday mesh on the walls, soundproofed rooms, and an exit tunnel that runs all the way out to the freeway.
“This is where you’ll stay,” I tell Levin as we step inside, the heavy door clanging shut behind us. “For the next few days at least. You’ll be safe here.”
He nods nervously, still clutching his briefcase like it’s a crucifix.
I motion for one of the guards to show him to the upper-level room we’ve fitted out for cases like this—sterile but not unfriendly.
Small bed, worktable, secure phone line, a private bathroom.
Enough to make him feel like he isn’t entirely a prisoner.
I watch him climb the stairs, that jittery look in his eyes like he’s still weighing whether to run.
“He’s going to bolt the second we leave,” I mutter.
Nadya gives me a look. “Not if we stay long enough to make him feel like he’s not alone.”
I exhale sharply. Of course she’s right. That’s the problem—she usually is.
We head up after him, make small talk while he unpacks the few things he brought—medical texts, a laptop, one framed photo of a little girl in a pink sweater. His daughter. The reason he almost walked away. The reason I can’t let him.
Nadya sets a kettle on the tiny electric stove and glances around.
“We’ll need to make it look like he left the country,” she says quietly, standing beside me while the doctor types something on his computer. “Fake boarding pass, forged immigration stamps. Maybe send his car to the airport and have it show up on security footage.”
I nod once, jaw clenched so tight it aches. I hate how right she is. I hate that I need to protect someone like Levin at all. And most of all, I hate that my father’s reach is still longer than mine.
“I should be gutting him by now,” I mutter under my breath.
“Too soon,” she replies calmly, slipping her hand over mine. “And not smart.”
I look at her then. Really look. Her eyes are steady but tired. She’s holding it together for me, for the kids, for everything that might fall apart if I make the wrong move.
The bastard made her scared. That’s all I can think. Dmitry made her scared enough that she had to ask Alexei for help. That’s on me.
I squeeze her hand once before pulling away.
“I’ll have Lev handle the airport cover story,” I say. “You make sure Levin gets food and settles in.”
She gives a soft nod, already turning toward the little kitchenette.
I walk toward the high window and stare out at the cracked concrete lot. My fists curl against the steel frame.
He sent a warning. That’s what this was. A whisper in Levin’s ear. A shadow outside his daughter’s school. He’s telling me he sees everything, owns everything, still pulls the strings even when he’s not in the room.
But I’m done reacting.
The warehouse has fallen quiet again, the doctor finally settled upstairs, the low murmur of his movements fading as Nadya and I linger downstairs by the surveillance monitors.
I’m leaning against the metal railing, staring blankly at the black-and-white security feeds cycling slowly across screens, my thoughts churning darkly.
Nadya touches my elbow lightly, drawing my attention back to her. Her eyes are soft with exhaustion, but steady, always steady.
“We should go,” she says quietly. “He’s secure. Lev’s people will watch the place.”
I nod once, reluctantly. It feels wrong to leave, like turning my back on the pieces I’m still trying desperately to keep together. But she’s right. We’ve done everything we can tonight.
“Let me check in with Lev first,” I say, reaching for my phone.
But before I even pull it from my pocket, the entire warehouse shudders violently beneath us.
A deafening blast tears through the silence, rattling the walls, vibrating straight through the soles of my shoes. Nadya stumbles, grabbing my arm as I jerk my head toward the monitors, heart racing into overdrive.
Smoke blooms across multiple screens, cameras flickering out in quick succession. The feed to the front gate goes dark instantly. We’re under attack.