Normal day: coffee that’s mostly desperation, and dinner that’s usually something fished out of the freezer five minutes before collapsing onto the couch.
Today?
Today, I am not behind the wheel of Betsy.
Today, I am being chauffeured like stolen royalty in an armored car that’s clearly worth a small fortune. The leather is too soft. The windows are too tinted. The sheer, purring quiet of the engine feels like a lullaby composed by a hitman.
I stare at my phone, hoping for something familiar. But all I see is an inbox clogged with chaos:
Peggy:“Reminder: Taxes due end of month.”
Paul (Mechanic):“Betsy’s done. Call me. Also: sorry for your loss.”
Julian:“Science fair tomorrow at 4.30 p.m. Lila’s freaking out about her volcano project.”
Elite Properties:“Client request: 3-bed, 2-bath, water views.”
I could laugh. Or scream. Maybe both.
“For the record,” I mutter, more to myself than to anyone else, “this is not how I thought my Tuesday would go.”
From my left, Konstantin shifts slightly. He doesn’t glance up from his phone, but I feel the weight of his attention all the same. It’s a gravity that pulls at me, even when he’s not looking. Even when he pretends not to notice.
“Do we need to discuss the school situation?” I ask, breaking the silence that’s stretched between us since leaving the estate.“About Alya? Because last time I checked, that’s a pretty major life decision that might warrant an actual conversation.”
He continues scrolling through his phone, thumb moving over the screen with maddening precision. “What’s there to discuss? You told her you would take her.”
“I—” My mouth opens, closes, opens again. “Are you serious right now? You’re the one who told her she could go to school in the first place.”
“And you’re the one who promised to take her.” He finally looks up, one eyebrow arched in that infuriating way that makes me want to either kiss him or push him out of the moving vehicle. “Did you not mean it? Should I tell her you’ve changed your mind?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Low blow, Belov.”
“Simply clarifying responsibilities,” he replies, but there’s a hint of something that might almost be amusement lurking in his expression.
“I meant we should discuss the logistics. The when, where, how of it all. You know, like normal people planning a child’s education?” I run a hand through my hair. “Or do you just point at things, and they magically happen in this world of yours?”
“Generally, yes.”
“Of course. Silly me.” I turn toward the window, watching the city blur past. “What was I thinking, suggesting something as radical as a conversation?”
The car slows for a traffic light, and I feel the absence of motion like an itch under my skin. Everything’s too still, too quiet. I glance back and find Konstantin watching me. Not glancing. Watching. His eyes track over my face like he’s memorizing the terrain, mapping valleys and peaks for future navigation.
And damn it all to hell, my body responds instantly, a hot ache blooming between my thighs so sudden and sharp it’sembarrassing. My pulse hammers in my throat. I cross my legs, pressing them together as if that might somehow dampen the completely inappropriate heat building there.
“Aren’t you going to ask me about what happened with my father earlier?” he says, his voice lower now, smoother.
I swallow hard. “What? You mean the part where I discovered I’m basically a checkbox on your ‘How to Become a Crime Boss’ to-do list? That part?”
“Pakhan,” he corrects. “The term isPakhan.”
“Oh, pardon me. I didn’t realize we were being technical about my role as your career stepping stone.”
His laugh catches me off guard—a genuine sound, rusty around the edges like it doesn’t get much use. It changes his entire face, softening the hard planes and angles into something dangerously close to handsome.
“You are… unexpected,” he says, like he’s making a note to himself.
The traffic light changes, and the car moves forward again, but the moment lingers between us, fragile and strange.
