“I think you’d do anything to get what you want. And right now, what you want is to becomePakhan. I’m just a means to that end.”
His fingers tighten slightly against my jaw. “You have no idea what I want.”
“Then tell me.”
His eyes drop to my mouth, lingering there as he moves closer, his breath warm against my lips.
“I’m better at showing than telling.”
My heart hammers against my ribs as he leans in, our faces so close I can count each of his eyelashes. His thumb traces my bottom lip, the touch featherlight but electrifying.
For one suspended moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. I think he’s finally going to cross that line we’ve been dancing around since the night on the sidewalk under the streetlamp.
But then he pulls back, his expression shuttering closed like blinds against the sun.
“I should go,” he says, his voice rough. “I have work to do.”
I should tell him. About the baby.
But the words lodge in my throat, tangled up in fear and uncertainty.
He rises to his feet in one fluid motion, putting distance between us that feels wider than the mere feet separating our bodies.
“Konstantin…”
“Get some rest.” He turns toward the door, all broad shoulders and rigid spine.
“Goodnight, Bella.”
The door closes behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone with the ghost of his almost-kiss and the weight of all the words we never said.
65
Konstantin
The Bratva office sits three floors below ground level of Belov Tower downtown—steel-reinforced concrete walls, no windows, air filtered through systems designed for military bunkers. The antithesis of my penthouse office with its glass walls and city views. This is where the real work happens. The work that doesn’t make it onto balance sheets or annual reports.
I stride through the reinforced door, access granted by retinal scan. The room falls silent as I enter, eyes tracking my movement.
“You look like shit, boss,” Timur mutters, leaning back against the wall.
“Didn’t sleep,” I say, and it’s almost the truth. Almost. I slept. On and off. Between pacing the hallway outside Bella’s room and staring at the ceiling like it held answers. It didn’t. Neither did the hours I spent replaying the sound of her crying in my head.The way she tried to cover it. The way it sliced through me like a blade.
Arseny is mid-sentence when he notices me, a slight nod the only acknowledgment before he continues. His focus is on a map projected on the wall, red markers indicating Savin’s suspected routes. “…and that’s why I think Savin is moving product through Newark instead of the usual channels. He’s playing chess while we’re playing war.”
I take my seat at the head of the table. The usual crew—Timur, Oleg, Viktor, and a few others whose loyalty has been tested by blood and time. Men who would die for the Bratva. For my father. Soon, for me.
Five days. Five days until I officially becomePakhan. The countdown ticks in my head like a metronome, steady and relentless.
“Savin’s artillery?” I ask, forcing my focus back to the matter at hand.
Timur slides a tablet across the table. “Twenty-seven men, mostly ex-military. Heavy artillery, but nothing we haven’t seen before.”
I scan the report, mind categorizing threats and solutions automatically. This is the world I understand. Clean. Strategic. No messy emotions or complicated women with blue eyes that haunt my dreams.
“Double the watch on our eastern warehouses,” I say. “And cut his supply chain. I want his product sitting in trucks with nowhere to go.”
Nods around the table. No questions. This is how power works—decisions made, orders followed.
