Chapter 14 Konstantin
KONSTANTIN
I nearly drift off in the chair, head tilted back, a file still open in my lap. The lamp casts a low amber glow over the scattered pages, and somewhere beyond the glass windows, the harbor cranes blink red in the fog.
A quiet rustle breaks the silence.
I sit up straighter, blinking the haze from my eyes. Mila stands in the doorway, her hair a sleep-tangled halo, dragging her stuffed rabbit by the ear. She rubs one eye with a tiny fist.
“Where’s Mommy?” she whispers.
I’m on my feet before I even think about it, the file sliding to the floor unnoticed.
I glance at the clock.
12:07 a.m.
Shit.
Nadya hasn’t come home.
I curse myself silently, throat tightening as I walk to Mila. “Hey, bunny,” I say gently, crouching to her level. “What are you doing out of bed?”
“I had a bad dream,” she mumbles, then looks up at me with wide, questioning eyes. “Where’s Mommy? I went to her room but she wasn’t there.”
I wrap an arm around her and lift her easily into my arms. “She’s…out, sweetheart. Just stepped out for a little while.”
“To the store?” she asks sleepily, tucking her face into my shoulder.
“Something like that.”
But my mind’s already racing. Nadya didn’t say she had a plan tonight.
I carry Mila to her room and tuck her back into bed. She clings to my shirt for a second longer than usual. “You’ll stay here?” she murmurs.
I nod, brushing her hair back from her forehead. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She falls asleep within minutes, her chest rising and falling in even rhythm, her hand still curled around my fingers.
But I don’t stay in the room. The moment I’m sure she’s out, I slip out, grab my phone from the study, and start calling.
I call Nadya again.
And again.
Nothing.
Just the hollow buzz of a line ringing into silence, followed by the mechanical voice telling me to try again later.
I check my messages. Nothing. Not even a breadcrumb trail. She didn’t say where she was going, didn’t say when she’d be back.
My grip tightens around the phone until I feel the edges dig into my palm.
“Goddammit, Nadya,” I mutter under my breath and dial Maksim.
He answers on the second ring. “Yeah, boss?”
“I need you here. Now.”
“You okay?”
“It’s Nadya. She’s missing.”
That’s all it takes.
Less than ten minutes later, he comes rushing into the apartment, still tucking a gun into the back of his waistband. “When did you last see her?”
“Earlier today. She never said anything about going out. Mila found me a little after midnight asking where her mother was.” My voice feels like gravel in my throat. “She’s not answering her phone.”
Maksim doesn’t waste time. “I’ll pull the car around. Let’s sweep the routes first—”
We’re in the elevator within moments, descending in tense silence, my pulse thudding behind my eyes.
The doors slide open to the lobby.
And that’s when I see her.
Stumbling in through the glass doors, framed by the streetlight glow outside. She’s limping slightly, hair a little tangled, a faint trail of blood dried near her temple beneath a makeshift bandage. There’s a tear at the hem of her blouse, her jacket slung loosely over one shoulder.
My heart kicks in my chest. “Nadya—”
And then I see who’s holding her arm.
Pyotr.
Her father.
My entire body stills.
She looks up just as I move toward her, blinking like the light hurts. Her eyes soften when she sees me, but they’re also clouded with something I can’t quite place—guilt? Fatigue? Pain?
“I’m fine,” she says before I can ask, her voice raspy. “It’s okay.”
“The hell it is,” I breathe, closing the distance. “Where the fuck have you been?”
She sags a little, and I catch her before she falls, my hands gripping her waist. She winces slightly, and I immediately ease off the pressure, pulling her closer as I scan the damage. Small bruises, scrapes, but the bandage at her temple tells me this was more than just a fall.
Pyotr steps forward. “She’s lucky to be alive.”
I stare at him, jaw locked.
“What the fuck did you do to her?” My fingers twist into the lapels of his jacket, dragging him forward. “You show up out of nowhere, and now she’s bleeding, limping, and you’re standing there like you belong here?”
He doesn’t answer. Just stares at me with that same unreadable expression I remember. The same one I saw the night he came to our home to warn Nadya. Too late then. Just as late now.
“You’ve got some nerve showing up here after what you did,” I growl, my voice low but venomous. “You betrayed her.”
“Konstantin.” Her voice slices through the tension, but I don’t look at her. I can’t. “Let go of him.”
“He—”
“I said let go,” she snaps.
I glance at her then.
She’s standing straight despite the way her knees almost buckled moments ago. Chin raised, eyes blazing. And when she looks at me, it’s not just a plea—it’s a warning.
I release him with a hard shove and step back, breathing hard.
“He saved my life,” she says, calmer now, but the words land like a slap.
I look at her face, try to find the cracks, the tremor in her voice, but there’s only truth in her eyes.
She’s serious.
Pyotr, the same man who vanished when she needed him, the same man who fed Alexei information that led to the massacre—saved her?
The elevator dings softly, the doors sliding open.
No one moves at first.
My hands are still curled into fists. My jaw feels wired shut.
Nadya walks into the elevator first, favoring her right leg. I move to help, but she doesn’t reach for me. Doesn’t look back either.
Pyotr steps in behind her.
I trail them both silently down the hallway, my thoughts raging louder than my footsteps.
If he hadn’t shown up with her, I’d have killed him.
I still might. Because if there’s one thing I know about men like him, it’s that redemption doesn’t come free.
We step into the apartment. The living room is quiet, the city lights bleeding in through the wide windows like ghosts watching us. Nadya heads for the kitchen without a word, as if she’s trying to put distance between all of us, or maybe just trying to breathe.
Pyotr lingers near the doorway, his boots still dusted with dirt. He surveys the place with a quiet kind of knowing, like he’s been here before in another lifetime. I stand between him and the rest of the apartment anyway, still not convinced he deserves to come past that threshold.
“You’re not staying,” I say flatly.
He doesn’t flinch. Just nods like he expected it.
“I didn’t come to stay. I came because she needed help.”
“You think that erases the past?”
“No,” he says. “But maybe it earns me five minutes.”
I open my mouth to tell him to go to hell when Nadya speaks from behind me.
“Let him sit down.”
I turn. Her face is unreadable again, but the faint tremor in her hand as she places a mug on the counter doesn’t escape me. She pours tea—not vodka, not whiskey, not the bourbon I know she’d rather be drinking—but tea. For herself. For him.
I say nothing, just move toward her, lowering my voice. “You should be resting.”
“I’ll rest after I find Nikolai.”
Her words are calm, too calm, and that scares me more than if she were screaming.
She brings Pyotr the mug and gestures to the couch. He lowers himself slowly, carefully, as though the weight of the months he spent hiding has suddenly caught up to him.
I stand by the edge of the kitchen, arms crossed, watching every damn move.
“Where the hell have you been?”
She doesn’t look at me.
“I asked you a question,” I say quietly.
Nadya barely lifts her eyes from the teacup she’s rinsing in the sink. “I handled something.”
Handled something. That’s all I get?
I walk around the counter slowly, the floor cool beneath my bare feet, the silence between us stretching too long, too wide. Pyotr is still sitting on the couch, nursing that damn tea like he belongs here. I keep my voice even, but inside, I’m unraveling.
“Where exactly were you?”
She finally looks at me, chin tilted. “I told you. It’s done now.”
The same tone she uses with Mila when she doesn’t want to scare her.
I step closer and reach for her hands, wrapping mine around them. “Nadya.”
Her fingers are stiff in mine. Cold. Like they’re already pulling away.
“You didn’t answer your phone,” I murmur. “Not once.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”
Her jaw tenses. “Does it matter?”
I stare at her, trying to find something—anything—in her face that isn’t this wall she’s built up again. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.
“I’m your husband,” I say low, my hands still around hers. “You think I don’t deserve to know where you went? What happened to you?”
Her lips press into a line.
Pyotr shifts slightly behind us, but I ignore him. I’m done putting on performances.
“Just talk to me,” I say. “Please.”
But she doesn’t. Not even a nod. Not even a lie this time. Just silence.
And that silence burns hotter than anything else she could’ve said.
I release her hands gently and step back. My mouth tastes like iron. I don’t trust myself to say anything else, not with her father sitting right there, not when I feel this…dismissed.
“Fine,” I mutter.
I turn and walk down the hallway, past Mila’s room, into ours. The door clicks behind me. I don’t bother turning on the light. I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, and drag a hand through my hair.
I hear the door creak open behind me ten minutes later. I don’t look up. The bedroom is still cloaked in darkness, only the city lights bleeding faintly through the curtains.
Her footsteps are soft. Hesitant.
“Is he still out there?” I ask, my voice low, rough from the silence.
“Yes,” she says.
Her silhouette leans against the doorframe, or maybe she’s just standing there. I can’t see her face. Just the shape of her.
I breathe in slowly, trying to tamp down the frustration rising again. “Do you really want him around Mila?”
There’s a pause. A real one. Not the kind where she’s trying to avoid the question—this is different. She’s thinking about it.
“I’m not sure how to answer that yet,” she says finally.