Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
I wake up feeling like I’ve been put through a meat grinder.
Every time I move, my body reminds me of the marble vanity in the bathroom and the way Mikhail used me to burn off the adrenaline of the explosion.
I’m sore in places I didn’t know had nerves, but the physical ache is nothing compared to the lead weight sitting in my stomach.
I look at Mikhail, who is sitting on the edge of the bed.
His back is a map of dark bruises today, purple and angry yellow blooming across his ribs.
He’s staring at a stack of files on the nightstand, his jaw set in that hard, uncompromising line that usually means someone is about to have a very bad day.
"How are you feeling?" I ask, my voice sounding like it’s been dragged over gravel.
Mikhail doesn't look back. He just reaches for a clean black shirt. "I’ve had worse. I’m going to the hospital. Artyom is awake, and the doctors say he’s stable enough for visitors."
"I’m coming with you."
He pauses, one arm halfway through a sleeve. He looks at me over his shoulder, his eyes searching mine. "You don't have to, Irina. It’s not going to be a pleasant morning. My sisters are there. My father might even try to crawl out of his hole to show his face."
"I'm your wife. Whether we like it or not, that means I’m part of this."
And because if I stay here, I’ll just stare at the burner phone until I lose my mind.
Mikhail gives me a short, grim nod. "Fine.”
The drive to the hospital is quiet. Mikhail is on his phone the entire time, barking orders to Lev about security at the North Docks and "clean-up" at the factory. He looks like he’s holding back a tidal wave of rage with nothing but sheer willpower.
I watch the city blur past the window, thinking about Boris's ultimatum.
If I don't give him the payroll records, he tells Mikhail about my secret. If I do give them to him, I’m the reason the Morozovs fall.
I’m screwed. No matter what I choose, I’m the villain in someone’s story.
The Morozov private hospital wing is more like a five-star hotel than a medical facility, except for the four guards standing at the entrance with their hands on their holsters. We pass through two security checkpoints before we reach Artyom’s suite.
The room is crowded. Kira is sitting in a chair right next to Artyom’s bed, her hand locked in his.
She looks exhausted, her eyes red-rimmed, but there’s a fierce, protective energy coming off her.
Artyom looks rough—he has a bandage wrapped around his head and his arm is in a cast, but his eyes are open and sharp.
Calina and Milana are standing near the window. Milana looks like she’s been crying, her usual energy completely extinguished. Calina just looks hollow, her arms crossed over her chest as she stares at her brother.
"Mikhail," Artyom says, his voice a dry rasp.
"You look like shit," Mikhail says, walking to the foot of the bed. It’s the closest thing to an 'I love you' these brothers are ever going to get, I’m sure.
"You don't look much better," Artyom counters, his gaze flickering to the bruise on Mikhail’s jaw. He looks at me and gives a small, stiff nod. "Irina."
"Artyom. I’m glad you’re… relatively in one piece," I say.
Kira looks at me, a small, tired smile touching her lips. "He’s stubborn. The doctors said the blast should have cracked his skull, but apparently, he has a thick head."
"It’s a family trait," I mutter.
I move toward the sisters, wanting to give the brothers space to talk shop. But as I step further into the room, I realize there’s someone else there.
A man is standing in the far corner, near the door. He hasn't said a word, and he hasn't moved since we walked in. He’s older than Mikhail, maybe in his late thirties, dressed in a charcoal suit that fits him with terrifying precision.
His eyes are dark, unreadable, and when they land on me, I feel a prickle of genuine unease crawl up my spine.
"Konstantin," Mikhail says, acknowledging the man. "You got here faster than I thought."
"The situation required a faster response," the man says. His voice is smooth, controlled, and completely devoid of emotion.
"Irina, this is Konstantin Belov," Mikhail says, though he doesn't take his eyes off Artyom. "An old friend of the family. He’s here to help with the internal audit."
An audit. That’s a polite way of saying he’s the one who finds the traitors and makes them disappear.
"Mr. Belov," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
Konstantin gives me a nod that is so minimal it’s almost insulting. "Mrs. Morozova."
He turns back to the brothers, his presence acting like an anchor in the room, weighing everything down. He’s unsettling in a way I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s the control. Mikhail is a storm—you can see him coming, you can hear the thunder. Konstantin is the silence before the lightning.
I move toward Milana, who is fidgeting with the strap of her handbag. She hasn't looked at Konstantin once. In fact, she’s been staring at the floor since he started speaking.
"Hey," I whisper, leaning in toward her. "You okay?"
Milana jumps slightly, her eyes wide as she looks at me. "Oh. Irina. Yes. I’m just... I hate hospitals. The smell of the disinfectant makes me feel sick."
"It’s not just the hospital," I say, lowering my voice even further. I glance toward Konstantin, who is now speaking quietly with Mikhail and Artyom.
Milana’s grip on her bag tightens until her knuckles turn white. She looks toward the corner where Konstantin is standing, and for a split second, I see an emotion I can’t quite name in her eyes.
"He's unsettling," I prompt her. "Right?"
Milana swallows hard, her gaze darting back to me. She looks like she wants to run out of the room. "He’s Konstantin," she says, her voice a fragile thread. "He’s been around since we were children. He’s always been... like that."
"Like what? He looks like he’s made of stone."
"He is," Milana whispers.
She lets out a shaky breath and moves away, joining Calina on the other side of the room as if the mere act of talking about him is a danger.
I stay where I am, my gaze drifting back to Konstantin Belov. He’s standing there, listening to Mikhail describe the explosion, his face a complete mask of indifference.
I think about Mikhail’s fire, his rage, and his possessiveness. I think about how much I’ve feared his temper. But looking at Konstantin, I realize there may just be something much worse than a man who burns.