Bella hesitates, glancing at me. This time, I give her the smallest nod. Permission granted. Not that she needs it, but she’s still learning where the boundaries lie.
She takes the bottle from Anya’s grateful hands and begins pouring with surprising confidence, starting with my mother’s glass.
Anya retreats with a nervous glance over her shoulder, but Bella stays steady, the bottle still cradled in her hands like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She finishes pouring for my mother before finally filling her own glass.
She sets the bottle down, picks up a slice of pizza, and takes a bite without ceremony.
Chews.
Chews again.
Then her gaze cuts to me, sharp and suspicious. Her eyes narrow, lips curving just slightly.
“Alright,” she says, still chewing, “who taught you to cook like this?”
Not a question of surprise—she knows exactly how I made it. She’s calling me out, almost like it’s some kind of personal betrayal.
Alya perks up, delighted. Even Nikolai’s mouth tugs at the corner, amusement ghosting across his face.
My mother’s gaze sharpens, and I catch the flicker of approval before she masks it behind her usual poise. She turns her glass in her hand, watching the wine catch the light.
“Konstantin has always been skilled in the kitchen,” she says smoothly. “His father, however, couldn’t boil water without burning it.”
Bella finishes her bite, brushes a crumb from the corner of her mouth, and raises an eyebrow.
“So not inherited, then.”
“No,” my mother replies, her gaze never leaving Bella. “But stubbornness is its own kind of legacy.”
There’s a beat, just long enough to be deliberate. Then she lets the blade slide in beneath the ribs, casual as anything.
“Speaking of your father,” she addresses me, like this was her plan all along, “how is he doing today? Still causing the nurses grief?”
I take a slow sip of wine, keeping my eyes on Bella. “Improving. The doctors say he’s showing better responses. I’ll take Bella to meet him tomorrow.”
Bella’s brows pull together, the smallest crease of confusion. She glances at me, clearly caught off guard.
“Your father-in-law is recovering from a stroke,” my mother explains to Bella, watching her reaction carefully. “Six months in a coma. Now he’s awake but… difficult.”
“Difficult is diplomatic,” I say. “PakhanBelov doesn’t take well to weakness—especially his own.”
“Pakhan…” Bella repeats, the foreign word awkward on her tongue.
“The head of the organization,” Nikolai supplies helpfully. “Grandfather wasPakhanbefore Papa.”
Understanding dawns on Bella’s face, followed quickly by something like alarm.
It clicks right there. I see it in her face, the moment the dots connect. Her gaze sweeps the table, from Alya’s easy amusement to my mother’s cool observation, and finally lands on me.
She lifts her glass slowly, almost like she’s bracing for impact, her brows lifted high.
“Right, of course,” she says, the word drawn out as her eyes narrow just a touch.
Then—like she’s not entirely sure what else to do—she gives a stiff little nod. Her nod looks like she’s agreeing to sign her own death warrant.
Which, in a way, she has.
I reach for my glass to hide the smirk threatening to pull at my mouth.
