Konstantin laughs—a rich, throaty sound that’s like whiskey poured over a campfire, his grin flashing for a split second before it settles into something softer, almost boyish.
Jesus.I hate how good he looks when he’s not actively terrifying someone.
Happy Konstantin Belov is a goddamn masterpiece, those storm-gray eyes sparkling, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass but warm with a fatherly glow that’s pure kryptonite. Oh-my-God hot. Like, I’d-climb-him-in-a-school-zone-and-plead-guilty hot, the kind of hot that makes you forget you’re sitting on a powder keg of mafia secrets.
And I swear to God—my uterus just makes a sound. A high-pitched, glitterysqueeonly dogs and emotionally unstable women can hear.
People think sexy is all cheekbones and tailored suits and brooding silence, but no.No, the hottest thing in the world is a mafia man gently correcting his daughter’s pronunciation of a Soviet lullaby in a bulletproof SUV, while looking like he could choke out a federal agent with one hand and still make it to school drop-off with the other.
I should stop myself, but I can’t help staring at thedomestic crime lord tableauplaying out in front of me.
His sleeves are rolled. His voice is soft. His hand is resting on the back of Alya’s booster seat like it’s the most natural thing in the world and not the reason I’m currently reconsidering every moral boundary I’ve ever had. And all I can think is how I’d let this man break every contract clause if he keeps laughing like that.
Pull it together, Bella.You’re not a dark romance badass ready to face off with Irina. You’re just a real estate chick with a death wish and a serious kink for lullaby lessons.
And then he turns, and the barest curve tugs at his mouth like a hook in my chest.
What the hell is this?
My heart lurches, my breath catching like I’ve been sucker-punched by a rom-com montage. Is he allowed to do that?
Okay. I am—officially—losing brain cells.
My legs are crossed like I’m trying to hide the fact that I’m spiraling. My purse is on my lap like a trauma blanket. I am one Russian vowel away from snapping in half.
And then—reality slaps me across the face.
Because, oh yeah. Ihaveproblems.
Life-and-death level problems.
Ex-wife-wants-to-meet-me-in-a-creepy-parking-lot-alone problems.
Because this isn’t normal.
This isn’t me tiptoeing around the kitchen with Julian half-asleep at the table and Lila griping about the wrong cereal. This is military-grade vehicles, bodyguards with earpieces, and me sitting shotgun next to a man who kisses like sin and conducts bedtime Russian grammar lessons like it’s foreplay.
Thank God for the kids. Seriously.
Trapped between my anxiety, my secrets, and this stupid, fluttery feeling in my chest that’s about to ruin my life.
I shift slightly, adjusting the strap of my purse like it’s not carrying the weight of a loaded Glock and a whole lot of moral ambiguity.
What should I do?
I should tell him.
Ishould.
Instead, I glance at him.
And he glances back, eyes unreadable, iPad in one hand, child’s song echoing in the background.
“What is it?” he asks.
I open my mouth, and nothing comes out. My throat’s a desert, my heart’s a fucking jackhammer, and Irina’s message—Friday. 12 p.m. Old Marina Car Park. West Exit. Come alone.—is a noose tightening around my neck.
I want to spill it, to tell him about his ex-wife’s threat, about Julian and Lila’s safety hanging by a thread, but the words stick like glue. If I tell him, Irina will know. She’ll hurt them. My brother and sister, the only family I’ve fought for since I was 16—they’re all I have. I’m not a mafia queen with a playbook for this shit.
