I press the pedal harder, and the Aston responds like it understands what’s at stake—like it knows that sometimes, showing up is the only victory we get to claim.
Another text comes in. Konstantin.
I push the message while keeping my eyes on the road.
Konstantin: Flying out tonight. Destination classified. Take the black card for whatever the children need.
No follow-up. No explanation. Just a black card and a disappearing act.
35
Konstantin
The hum of the engines is constant, a low, expensive purr that seeps into your bones. The Gulfstream cuts through the clouds like it owns the sky, which—technically speaking—it does. Timur’s already buckled in across from me, laptop open, tapping like he’s trying to murder the keyboard. Arseny lounges like it’s his personal cigar club, legs stretched out, a glass of something aged and smug in hand.
And the new flight attendant?
She’s trying too hard.
Bleached-blonde, legs that go on forever, lips that look store-bought and poorly installed. Her uniform’s pristine, shirt one button too low to be accidental, smile fixed straight at me.
Arseny tracks the whole thing like it’s a sport.
“She’s been glancing at your crotch every eight seconds,” he says without looking up. “I counted.”
“She’s wasting her time.”
Arseny raises his glass. “Tragic. For her.”
I glance once. Just enough to make it clear I’ve noticed. Her face lights up like I handed her a diamond. I don’t return it. Not because I’m polite. Because I’m not interested.
Not in the girl.
Not in anything that isn’t wearing my ring and calling me an asshole while doing it.
Bella.
I pull out my phone. One bar. The message I sent this morning still says:Delivered.Read.
No reply.
Of course not.
Victor’s text appears:
Subject has arrived at Blackwood Academy. All clear.
The flight attendant—Natalia, according to her too-shiny nametag—approaches with another bottle of water.
“Can I get you anything else, Mr. Belov?” Her voice dips on my name, practiced and performative.
“No.”
She lingers, one hip cocked, an invitation written in body language simple enough for a blind man to read.
“The gentleman across from me might need something.” I don’t look up.
Arseny raises his glass in mock salute as she retreats. “Your rejection technique lacks finesse.”
