Besides, if Konstantin was actually some Bratva kingpin, he wouldn't be operating in plain sight with his name on buildings. He'd be hiding in some underground bunker in Moscow, not sitting in a corner office in California with his face on the company website.
Right.
I'm pretty sure running into actual Russian mafia is about as likely as finding affordable housing in San Francisco—theoretically possible but statistically improbable.
This isn't a Netflix series. I'm just a sleep-deprived real estate agent with an overactive imagination and too many true crime podcasts in my Spotify history.
“Hah!” I actually snort-laugh at myself.
God, my fear has officially driven me insane. I've crossed the line from stressed to delusional.
I gulp down the rest of my coffee—now ice-cold and bitter—and dive deeper into the Konstantin Belov rabbit hole. Wife: none. Children: three.
Three kids! He’s a single dad. A hot, possibly dangerous, definitely domineering single father with arms that look like they could—
No. Stop it.
What is wrong with me?
“Ugggghhhh.” The groan that escapes me is deep, guttural, and mortifying. He’s not just rich—he’s a real estate tycoon. His company owns developments, luxury high-rises, billion-dollar commercial properties in every major city. I’ve worked in this industry for eight years. I’ve pitched clients that worked under his empire.
He’s the kind of man you hear about but never meet. The kind that buys entire blocks of prime real estate with a single phone call and ruins competitors without breaking a sweat.
And now?
He wants me.
I flick the edge of the card with my nail. Stare at the number printed beneath his name.
I already programmed it into my phone, but my thumb hovers over the screen like a coward.
Just text him.
Say something.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I type out a message.
Me:Read the contract. You’re insane.
I stare at the screen. Consider adding something else. Something that makes me sound less like a feral raccoon forced into a marriage contract.
Before I can change my mind, I hitsend.
And then I wait.
And wait.
And—nothing.
No read receipt. No dots. No sign of life.
Goddamn it.
I toss my phone onto the couch and walk away before I throw it through a window.
I don’t even realize I’m pacing again until my foot slams into a stack of unopened mail.
Bills.
