“Security concerns, you understand,” Arseny continues, still holding Tatiana’s wrist, but his attention is clearly divided. “Can’t have the family creating scenes in public.”
Tatiana’s nostrils flare as she withdraws her hand, composure returning like a mask being reapplied. The transition is unsettling—rage to poise in the space of a heartbeat.
“Of course. How thoughtless of me.” Her gaze flicks to Elena, then back to Arseny. “Well,” she says, her voice cool and thin, “I should be going. Alya, be sure to tell your father I’m looking forward to his… ceremony.” Tatiana’s eyes land on me one last time. “And Bella? Enjoy your… family while you can.”
The words hang in the air, heavy with threat.
What the hell does that mean?
And just like the timing is right, a black Range Rover pulls up behind Tatiana’s Bentley. The timing feels orchestrated, too perfect to be coincidence. All heads turn as the engine cuts off.
Konstantin steps out first, his height and bearing instantly commanding attention. He’s followed by Julian, Nikolai, and Lev, all laughing about something—a bright bubble of normality that bursts the moment they register the tension in the air.
The sight of Konstantin—tall, imposing, his face shifting from relaxed to alert in the space of a heartbeat—sends a flutter through my chest.
No. Stop it.
“Well, hello, testosterone convention,” Elena mutters beside me, fanning herself dramatically. “Is this what you wake up to every morning? If so, I’m filing paperwork to become your sister. Blood relation optional.”
Tatiana stiffens, clearly thrown by his appearance. Whatever game she was playing, Konstantin’s arrival has disrupted it. For a split second, genuine surprise flashes across her face before she manages to compose herself.
Konstantin’s eyes sweep over the scene, taking in every detail: me holding Alya protectively, Tatiana’s predatory stance, Elena and Arseny standing unusually close, security on high alert. His jaw tightens, a muscle working beneath his skin.
His gaze lands on Tatiana. And then, as if she’s invisible, his eyes move to me.
Konstantin strides over, slipping an arm around my waist, pulling me against him like he’s staking a claim. “Lunch is waiting.”
68
Konstantin
Iswirl the Sancerre in my glass, the wine’s crisp edge a faint anchor against the chaos unfolding before me. The dining table is a battlefield of indulgence—grilled sea bass with lemon-caper sauce for us, its flakes glistening beside wild mushroom risotto and roasted heirloom vegetables, their colors vivid as a painter’s palette. For the kids, Kobe beef sliders, each topped with a pickle spear, sit next to truffle-dusted fries and fruit skewers shaped like stars. Sourdough loaves, their crusts crackling, flank herb-infused olive oil that shimmers in porcelain bowls.
Perfect. Controlled. Everything I demand.
Everything else? A goddamn circus.
Elena’s holding court at the table’s far end, her fork a conductor’s baton as she spins another outrageous tale.
“So, there I am at this celebrity chef’s house for my magazine interview,” she says, her dark eyes sparking, “and he opens thedoor in nothing but an apron that says ‘Kiss the Cook’ and a grin that’s definitely not about food.”
Julian snorts into his water, nearly choking, while Bella’s fork freezes midair.
“Elena,” she hisses, her eyes darting to Lev and Nikolai, who are stacking fries into a wobbling tower, and Alya, who’s arranging her fruit skewers into a meticulous rainbow.
“Oh, right,” Elena says, pivoting with a con artist’s grace. “PG version: some folks don’t get professional boundaries, so I interviewed his assistant instead. Made a chocolate soufflé that’d make you cry happy tears.”
Arseny’s lips twitch, his eyes crinkling. My strategist, who’s stared down rival Bratva captains without flinching, is undone by this woman who smells like patchouli and trouble. He leans forward, his wavy hair catching the light, and I swear he’s imagining her in ways that’d make my security team blush.
My right-hand man, reduced to a schoolboy,I think, gripping my glass tighter.What the hell is this woman doing to my house?
And it’s not just Elena. It’s Bella’s whole world—her family, her craziness—bleeding into mine like ink into water.
Julian’s teaching Lev how to flip a butter knife, both of them laughing when it clatters to the table. Lila’s braiding Alya’s curls, the two giggling over some TikTok dance nonsense. Nikolai, usually brooding, is chuckling as Elena mimes a soufflé exploding, her hands flailing dramatically. This isn’t my life. My life is steel and blood, deals in shadowed rooms, enemies buried before they blink. But this—this warmth, this noise—is sinking into me, and I can’t stop it. I don’t want to.
Why did I let this happen?
My gaze slides to Bella. She’s beside me, her white blouse clinging just enough to make my pulse kick. Her blue eyes flickerwith amusement, but there’s a pallor to her skin, a tension in her jaw that says her smile’s a lie.
