Chapter 8 Konstantin
KONSTANTIN
The sun is out, warm but not harsh, filtering through the line of trees that border the park. It’s a good day, by all appearances. Families sprawl across picnic blankets, strollers roll by, and somewhere behind us, a street performer strums a lazy tune on an acoustic guitar.
But I can’t stop watching her.
Nadya stands near the bench, arms crossed loosely, eyes hidden behind her sunglasses. She’s dressed like any other young mother in the park—simple, stylish, forgettable if you aren’t looking too closely. But I’m always looking.
And I know that stance, that posture, that quiet calculation just beneath her surface. She’s planning something. I just don’t know what.
She talks to another mother—laughs, even—but her weight shifts slightly to the right, toward the hedge behind her, keeping her back covered. When she turns her head to check on Mila, she doesn’t do it casually. She sweeps the perimeter. She’s working. Even now.
She told me this party was for Mila. And maybe it is. But it’s also a move. A step forward on a board I haven’t quite mapped out yet. And that gnaws at me, more than I want to admit.
But then I hear her—Mila—screaming with laughter from the jungle gym, and everything stills for a moment.
She’s running with another girl, cheeks flushed, hair flying wild in the breeze.
The sound cuts through me, bright and pure.
It reminds me that she’s still a child, even if the rest of us have aged ten years in the last few weeks.
She’s happy.
At least for now.
But the weight returns almost instantly. Because today isn’t just about Mila. It’s also Nikolai’s birthday.
Nikolai should be here. Running beside her, laughing with her, arguing over which ice cream flavor to pick after. I see him sometimes, out of habit—a flash of dark hair in a crowd, a little boy at the edge of a sidewalk—but it’s never him.
And it won’t be. Not unless we find him.
Nadya glances over her shoulder at me then, catching my gaze. She gives me the smallest nod before turning back to her conversation. That look—it tells me everything and nothing.
I get up from the bench and start walking toward the jungle gym.
Not because I need to, but because I need to do something.
The wood chips crunch beneath my shoes as I pass a cluster of parents, all chatting about schools and sleep schedules like nothing in the world has ever gone wrong.
I envy them, in a strange, bitter way. Their normalcy. Their ignorance.
Mila spots me before I call her name. “Papa!” she shouts, beaming as she comes bounding down the slide and running straight to me, arms wrapping around my leg like I’m some kind of anchor.
“Having fun?” I ask, brushing hair from her face.
She nods so hard I think her head might fall off. “Can we stay longer? Please?”
I nod once. “As long as you want.”
Her smile falters for just a second. “Do you think Nikolai gets to have a birthday cake wherever he is?”
The question hits like a punch to the ribs. I crouch down, swallowing the knot in my throat. “I don’t know, sweetheart. But I hope he does. I hope someone made it special for him.”
She looks at me, solemn, her small hand finding mine. “Do you think he misses us?”
I squeeze gently. “I know he does.”
That seems to satisfy her for now. She leans in and kisses my cheek before darting back to the playground, joining the other children like that moment never happened.
But it happened to me.
I rise slowly and turn to walk back. Nadya’s eyes are on me when I reach the bench. She says nothing, but I know she saw. I sit beside her.
“She asked about him,” I say quietly.
Nadya doesn’t look away from the children. “I figured she would.”
“She misses him.”
“So do we.”
I glance at her. “That’s not all, though, is it?”
She finally turns to me, a flicker of something unreadable in her gaze. “What do you mean?”
“You’re planning something.”
“I’m always planning something.”
I give a faint snort. “That’s not a denial.”
She tilts her head, eyes on the field again. “You don’t want to know.”
“Try me.”
But she just smiles, the kind that doesn’t reach her eyes. Her expression is unreadable, but there’s something simmering underneath—anger, exhaustion, maybe guilt. I can’t tell anymore. I used to know her. Now I know a version of her that’s always two moves ahead, always guarded.
“I don’t want to waste my breath if you’re just going to shoot it down,” she says flatly.
“Shoot what down, Nadya?” I snap. “You say we’re in this together, but you’re always ten steps ahead, never letting me see the board.”
She narrows her eyes. “Maybe because I’m tired of explaining myself. Tired of asking for permission.”
I sit forward, elbows on my knees. “Is that what you think this is? Me trying to control you?”
She lets out a short breath. “No. This is you pretending you don’t still want control. Over everything. Over me.”
“That’s not fair.”
She leans closer. “Neither is waking up every morning wondering if our son is alive or dead.”
My jaw tightens. “You think I don’t wake up with that same thought?”
“You act like you’re the only one grieving.”
“And you act like I’m supposed to just sit back while you move pieces I can’t see.”
“Because you won’t look, Konstantin!” Her voice rises, drawing a glance from a nearby father, but she doesn’t care. Neither do I. “You’re so obsessed with doing things your way, you’ve stopped seeing what’s right in front of you.”
“And what is that exactly?” I ask.
“You really want to do this here?”
“I want to know what the hell you’re doing.”
She turns to face me, her body angled just slightly—like she’s preparing to spring or to strike. “You don’t trust me.”
I laugh under my breath. “I don’t even know what you are to me anymore.”
Her eyes flash. “And whose fault is that?”
I shift closer, tension flaring behind my ribs. “I don’t know what you want from me.”
“You think your paranoia is insight? That your silence is strategy? Mila almost got taken, or have you already shoved that out of your head?”
My jaw tightens. “Don’t bring her into this.”
“She’s the reason I’m doing any of this,” she says, voice rising. You want to talk trust? You haven’t even told me where you went last week.”
I go still.
She leans in, voice cold. “You think I didn’t notice?”
I look at her. Really look. The flush in her cheeks, the storm in her eyes. Her lips are parted, breathing fast.
She’s fire and fury and heartbreak, and God help me, I want her.
But not like this. Not now.
She sees it too—the way my eyes drop to her mouth. The way my hand twitches toward hers and stops. A beat passes between us, stretched and tight.
“We’re wasting time,” she says finally, the words a blade. “If you’re not going to help me, then get out of my way.”
I stand slowly. “You know where to find me.”
She doesn’t respond, and I don’t look back.
Maksim catches me before I’ve made it ten steps. He’s standing near the drinks table, wearing a blue cone-shaped party hat with crooked stars on it. The elastic strap digs slightly into his jaw, making him look more like a disgruntled birthday clown than a man I trust to cover me in a firefight.
He gives me a solid punch on the arm—not painful, but enough to let me know he noticed. “What the hell was that about?”
I don’t answer right away. I grab one of the paper cups filled with juice, swirl the orange liquid around like it’s a glass of scotch, and mutter, “I need something stronger.”
Maksim raises a brow. “This is a kids party.”
“Exactly,” I say, and knock it back anyway.
He looks past me, toward where Nadya’s directing two of the staff to move a balloon arch closer to the photo table.
Her expression is unreadable from here, but I know she’s still pissed.
I’m still pissed. And worse—I’m still wired from the heat of that argument.
The words, the proximity, the silence at the end of it.
Maksim follows my line of sight and snorts. “You two fight like you’re either about to rip each other’s clothes off or rip each other apart. Never can tell which.”
I glance at him. “You wearing that hat voluntarily?”
He smirks. “Mila made me. She threatened to cry.”
“Hm.”
He leans in slightly. “You want advice?”
“No.”
That shuts him up. He steps back without a word, adjusting the party hat like it matters, his expression unreadable again.
Lev would’ve pushed. He’d have rolled his eyes, said something crude or too honest, something that would’ve pissed me off in the moment and made sense later.
He wouldn’t have backed down just because I barked.
He’d have stood there, arms folded, waiting until I gave in and told him what was going on, because Lev always knew when I was cracking under the surface.
Maksim is not Lev.
He’s dependable, capable, quiet. He follows the plan. Does his job. Doesn’t cross lines. And maybe that’s what I needed after Lev was gone—someone who doesn’t push.
But right now? I feel the absence like a blade.
I watch Maksim walk off, the ridiculous hat still bobbing as he goes. He’s not offended. He’s used to my moods. He’ll be back the next time I need something, no questions asked.
And that’s the problem, isn’t it?
I stand by the drink table, feeling the sun beating down from its late afternoon angle, glancing across the picnic tables and the checked blankets that dot the open grass.
The breeze rustles the bright streamers tied to the trees, and the smell of frosting and grilling hot dogs drifts on the air.
It’s all so normal—so perfectly staged for Mila’s sake, for the children shrieking around the swings and the cluster of adults trading pleasantries in the shade.
My eyes keep drifting back to Nadya.
She’s at the edge of the party, near the tables where the wives gather, most of them perched on folding chairs in their careful summer dresses.
Bratva wives, mistresses, daughters of men who matter, or think they do.
They’re dressed like they’re waiting to be photographed, perfectly made up in curated casuals, fingers wrapped around wineglasses like weapons.
Nadya’s right in the middle of them.
Her back is straight, her expression pleasant.
She nods, laughs where appropriate, even tilts her head the way Mila does when she’s pretending to listen.
But I know her. And I can see the way she shifts her weight just a little too often, how her fingers keep brushing down the side of her dress like she’s adjusting fabric that’s already in place. She’s uncomfortable.
The sight of it makes something twist in my chest.
She can navigate the Bratva’s most vicious rooms like she was born for it. But put her in a circle of gossiping women in pastel heels and she’s visibly off-balance.
She’s trying. I don’t know what for, and I don’t like not knowing—but she’s doing it.
And somehow that bothers me more than if she were holding a gun.
I turn and wave over the caterers, pointing to the corner table shaded by a blue canopy. “Set up the cake over there,” I tell them, making sure my voice carries just enough to sound in charge. The woman in the chef’s coat nods, already signaling her staff.
I’m just finishing off a too-sweet cup of punch when I notice a group of dads break away from the picnic tables.
They’re not from our world—button-down shirts, comfortable sneakers, baseball caps worn backward, the kind of men who take their kids to T-ball practice and have strong opinions about lawn fertilizer.
I brace myself as they head straight toward me, carrying that unmistakable energy of men who have no idea what they’re walking into.
“Hey, you’re Mila’s dad, right?” the tallest one says, sticking out his hand. “I’m Brian—my kid’s in her class.”
I shake his hand, keeping my face neutral. “Konstantin.”
“Konstantin, right! That’s…Russian?” another dad chimes in, squinting at me.
“It is,” I reply, deadpan.
The third dad, who has a baby strapped to his chest and a “#1 DAD” mug, grins. “So, what do you do, Konstantin?”
There’s a long pause. I could lie, but I’m tired and curious to see what they make of the truth. “I’m in…asset recovery.”
They exchange glances. Brian laughs, slapping my arm. “Oh, like repo? You tow cars?”
I arch a brow. “Something like that. Sometimes the assets move, sometimes they don’t want to be found. Sometimes it gets…messy.”
Jeff laughs. “You make it sound like you’re in the mafia or something!”
I offer him a neutral smile. “Something like that.”
They all laugh, apparently convinced I’m making a joke. “Man, you’ve got that deadpan humor,” Mike says. “I could never keep a straight face like that. What do you actually do?”
I shrug. “It depends on the day.”
“Does it pay well?” Brian asks, still grinning.
“Well enough,” I say, watching as Mila runs by, confetti stuck to her hair.
Mike elbows Jeff. “Hey, maybe he can help you move next month—did you hear he negotiated with the movers to get them under budget?”
I nod. “If you ever need something heavy moved in a hurry, just call me.”
They laugh again, a little too loudly, and I almost crack a real smile.