Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Natasha & Dante
Natasha
The gallery owner jacked up the venue fee by thirty percent.
A full thirty percent. We'd shaken on the price last month, locked in the dates and everything. But today, the second I walked in, that beer-bellied bastard just shrugged and told me the market had shifted. Pay up or get out.
I didn't have the money he asked for.
So the second exhibition Leo had busted his ass to set up for me? Back to being a pipe dream.
By the time I left the gallery, it was already dark. Early spring wind cut straight down the street, stinging my face. I yanked my collar up, pulled my scarf over half my face, and started the two-mile walk to that discount supermarket.
I could've taken the bus. But I did the math—save the bus fare, buy a bunch of discount carrots and half a pound of chicken breast.
I never thought I'd adapt this fast.
After leaving the manor, I remembered what money actually meant. No car, no staff, no bottomless black card. I'd become a Natasha who had to count every penny.
Honestly? I didn't hate it. At least this money was clean. I'd earned it myself.
I pressed a hand to my belly.
"Just hang in there," I told you silently. "Once Mom saves up enough, things'll get better."
That's when the hair on the back of my neck stood up.
I'd felt it for days now. Between supermarket aisles, at street corners, when I thought I was alone—this gaze on my back that I couldn't shake.
I whipped around.
The sidewalk behind me was empty. Just an old lady walking her dog and dead leaves spinning in the wind.
Paranoid again.
I breathed out a white puff and kept walking. Maybe everything that'd happened these past months had strung my nerves too tight. A pregnant, freshly divorced woman with a few hundred bucks left in her pocket—being paranoid was pretty normal, right?
Wait, did I even have a few hundred left? Even with all my penny-pinching, I was poorer than I'd thought.
I gripped the shopping basket, putting things back on shelves one by one until I was left with carrots, a bag of frozen peas, two cans of discount tuna, and buried at the bottom—that tube of titanium white paint I'd been eyeing for half a month.
Paint was my only luxury.
On the way back, to save ten minutes, I cut through an alley I usually avoided.
Stupid move. The alley was narrow and dark, the single streetlight flickering like it was dying. But I was shaking with cold, the shopping bag cutting into my fingers, and I just wanted to get back to my drafty but at least mine shitty apartment.
Halfway through the alley, two guys stepped out of the shadows, blocking me on both sides.
In the stuttering light, I saw one of them had a knife.
"Bag." The one with the knife stuck his hand out. "And the groceries. Now."
My heart jumped into my throat.
I instinctively yanked the shopping bag behind me, my other hand clutching the backpack on my shoulder—my sketchbook was in there, my paint, everything I owned.
But the knife moved forward, the tip catching the light.
I snapped back to reality. Bags versus life—I knew which mattered more. And I wasn't alone anymore.
I let go of the strap.
Knife guy yanked my backpack away. The other one grabbed the groceries. They both bolted deeper into the alley.
I stood there, furious and terrified, watching that tube of titanium white and two weeks' worth of food disappear into the dark.
I was about to yell for help when sounds erupted from deep in the alley. Then two screams—muffled, pain-twisted. I fought the urge to run and, possessed by something, chased after them into the alley.
But the second I turned the corner, I froze.
Because Dante was standing in the shadows under the streetlight.
He wore his signature black suit, spine straight, half his face hidden in darkness. In one hand, he held my stolen backpack.
At his feet, the two muggers were crumpled on the ground—one clutching his gut, the other his face, both groaning through swollen features. My shopping bag had rolled to the side, the peas split open, little green balls scattered everywhere.
Dante looked up and saw me.
The next second, the man standing between two bodies, radiating violence—he froze. That cold, murderous look in his eyes scattered the instant they met mine, replaced by panicked confusion.
His mouth opened, then closed.
"Natasha," he finally said, voice lower than usual, uncertain. "I didn't—"
I didn't know what expression I was wearing, but it clearly threw Dante into chaos.
He must've read something in my face. So he did something that stunned me. He lifted his foot and, with his polished shoe, pressed down—not hard, just enough—on one mugger's leg.
The guy screamed and cursed, jerking back.
"See?" Dante's voice came out almost eager. "They're still alive. I know you don't like it when I kill people."
I couldn't speak.
The old Dante never bothered explaining. My heart softened, just for a second.
Just one second.
But that was dangerous enough. He was only steps away, the streetlight illuminating half his face, those dark eyes locked on me without blinking, making heat crawl up my spine. My body was more honest than my brain—it still remembered this man, his hands, the way he breathed when he kissed me.
Dammit.
I shoved that pathetic weakness down hard.
I strode forward and ripped the backpack from his hand.
Our fingers brushed. His were ice cold. I jerked my hand back so fast I startled myself.
"Stop following me. I don't want to see you again." I forced the words through clenched teeth.
I didn't give him a chance to respond. I turned and walked away, leaving behind the scattered peas, the groaning thugs, and the man standing frozen in the dark.
Back at the apartment, I locked the door and stood against it for a long time, waiting for my heartbeat to slow.
Then I realized something was off.
The only table in the room—there was stuff on it I definitely hadn't bought. A glass bottle of premium fresh milk, fancy imported deli boxes, a basket of expensive-looking organic fruit.
Things pregnant women should drink. Things pregnant women should eat.
Then came the warmth. The physical kind.
The radiator in this dump had been broken for a month. Every night, I had to wrap myself in two blankets and stuff a hot water bottle under the covers just to sleep. I'd nagged the landlord eight hundred times. She always said "working on it," then nothing.
But now the place was toasty warm.
I walked to the corner. The rusty, drafty old radiator was gone. In its place—a brand new heating system, silver pipes gleaming, even the wall screws freshly installed.
My heart sank.
I grabbed my phone and called the landlord.
"Hello? Oh, Miss Kornilov..." Her voice was instantly guilty.
"Hi. The radiator in my apartment," I kept my voice as calm as possible. "Who told you to replace it?"
Several seconds of silence.
"Well... you see," she stammered. "Some men in black suits came by. Said to install the best heating system for you immediately. Had to be done today."
I closed my eyes. Who else but Dante?
"You gave them a key?"
Stupid question—how else did this stuff get in here?
The landlord's answer lacked conviction. "They didn't seem like they meant you harm. They were carrying nutrition supplements and everything."
I hung up and stood in the middle of the room for a long time.
The heat slowly thawed my frozen fingers and toes, that long-absent feeling of being carefully looked after seeping in.
I thought about the alley. That careful little stomp. The clumsy earnestness in his eyes when he rushed to prove they were still alive.
I softened again.
Dammit. I was softening again.
I sighed and rubbed my face.
Had to admit—I was a sucker for gentleness, not force. Dante's bumbling attempts at pleasing me were harder to resist than I wanted to admit.
I hugged that shameful, wavering warmth to myself and tilted my head back, trying to breathe.
Then I saw it.
In a crack near the ceiling corner, a tiny black object no bigger than a fingernail, its faint red light blinking.
A camera.
That fragile softness in my chest snapped tight again, this time with rage.
Surveillance. He'd put surveillance in my home.
I suddenly felt like an idiot. I'd almost let myself soften over a heating system and one unnecessary explanation.
The man hadn't changed at all.
I took a deep breath, walked over, and gathered everything on the table into my arms. Then, carrying the milk, deli boxes, and fruit, I walked directly under the camera, looked up, and stared straight into that blinking red lens.
I threw everything in my arms into the trash can beside me, one piece at a time.
"I know you're watching." My voice came out cold, alien even to myself. "Dante Romanov, listen carefully."
"We're divorced! If you ever spy on my life again, if you ever touch anyone around me—"
I stared into that red light, word by word.
"I will leave New York immediately, and you'll never see this child for the rest of your life."
I reached up, grabbed an empty shopping bag, and covered that camera and crack completely.
Dante
The screen in front of me went black.
I leaned back in my chair and stared at the static for a long time.
Natasha's last words—she'd take the child and leave New York.
Anyone else threatening me like that, I'd make them understand immediately: in New York, there's no one Dante Romanov can't find, and nothing that belongs to me can be taken.
But she was Natasha. Besides Katerina, she was the only woman who left me not knowing what to do.
I pulled the chair forward and tapped a few keys.
The screen lit up again.
A new feed appeared—still that apartment, different angle. Shot from above the refrigerator. She sat against the wall, face buried in her knees, shoulders trembling slightly.
She thought smashing the ceiling camera meant I couldn't see her anymore.
But I'd installed more than one.
I stared at that curled figure on the screen, my throat tight. If she found out the full extent of this, she'd hate me even more. Hate me down to her bones.
But I couldn't stop. I had no control.
Since Natasha left, I hadn't been able to breathe right. Something stayed wound tight inside me. I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes—her and that child.
I had to know where she was.
I had to know if she'd eaten, if she was cold, if anyone was hurting her. I had to know my unborn child was somewhere safe and warm.
She could block me, hate me, humiliate me in front of Leo, smash every camera I planted.
But whether she stayed in New York or tried to run to the ends of the earth—
I'd follow.
I picked up my phone and dialed. The man on the other end quickly, nervously agreed to my terms.
I hung up and reopened that hidden feed.
On screen, Natasha had gotten up from the floor. She walked to the old dining table she used as a desk, sat down, spread open her sketchbook, picked up a charcoal pencil, and started drawing, line by line, head bowed.
I owed her too much. More than I could repay in this lifetime.
But I had time.