The words leave my mouth too fast, too sharp, louder than they should be. The moment they hit the air, I wish I could take them back.
The shift.
The hush.
A subtle ripple through the restaurant as the few people close enough to hear make the collective decision to pretend they didn’t. Because in a place like The Imperium, discretion isn’t just a courtesy—it’s survival.
My stomach drops. I inhale fast, lower my voice to a whisper.
“Bratva?”
Across from me, Konstantin snorts.
Like this is funny.
Like I didn’t just find out that I’ve been bartered into a fucking crime syndicate marriage for the low price of one family home and a couple of tuition payments.
“I heard you when you shouted the first time.” He lifts his whiskey to his lips, taking a slow sip. “No need to repeat yourself.”
I stare at him, my eye twitching. “I— Are you—are you actually laughing right now?”
He doesn’t deny it. That’s the worst part.
I slap a palm onto the table hard enough to rattle the silverware. “What part of ‘I didn’t realize I was selling my soul to the Russian mob’ is amusing to you?”
He exhales through his nose—not quite a laugh, but close enough that I want to throw something.
“Isabella,” he says, slow and deliberate, like he’s explaining something simple to a child, “do you really think you would’ve been able to get what you wanted from a man like me if I were just another businessman?”
I open my mouth. Shut it.
Because that’s the problem, isn’t it?
I didn’t ask.
I didn’t ask what he was.
I was too busy begging him to save my family home, too desperate to get Julian and Lila out from under my uncle’s control.
And now?
Now I’m knee-deep in Bratva bullshit, legally bound to a man who considers love a liability and emotions a waste of time.
I drop my forehead into my hand. “Oh, my God.”
Konstantin just watches me. Patient. Detached. Like he has all the time in the world to let me come to terms with my own stupidity.
The waiter appears again, setting down our drinks with silent precision.
“Are we ready to order?” he asks, pen poised over his little notepad like we’re about to dictate world peace.
“Give us a moment,” Konstantin says without looking at him.
The waiter hesitates, his gaze darting between us. I must look like I’m about to combust. “Perhaps I could recommend the—”
“A moment,” Konstantin repeats, and there’s a new edge to his voice that makes the waiter practically evaporate on the spot.
Then, smoothly, he says, “Your siblings are in one of the best private schools in the country. Paid in full. Tuition, housing, security, extra curriculars. Anything they need, they get.”
