Calina and Milana are standing near the window. Milana looks like she’s been crying, her usual energy completely extinguished. Calina just looks hollow, her arms crossed over her chest as she stares at her brother.
"Mikhail," Artyom says, his voice a dry rasp.
"You look like shit," Mikhail says, walking to the foot of the bed. It’s the closest thing to an 'I love you' these brothers are ever going to get, I’m sure.
"You don't look much better," Artyom counters, his gaze flickering to the bruise on Mikhail’s jaw. He looks at me and gives a small, stiff nod. "Irina."
"Artyom. I’m glad you’re… relatively in one piece," I say.
Kira looks at me, a small, tired smile touching her lips. "He’s stubborn. The doctors said the blast should have cracked his skull, but apparently, he has a thick head."
"It’s a family trait," I mutter.
I move toward the sisters, wanting to give the brothers space to talk shop. But as I step further into the room, I realize there’s someone else there.
A man is standing in the far corner, near the door. He hasn't said a word, and he hasn't moved since we walked in. He’s older than Mikhail, maybe in his late thirties, dressed in a charcoal suit that fits him with terrifying precision.
His eyes are dark, unreadable, and when they land on me, I feel a prickle of genuine unease crawl up my spine.
"Konstantin," Mikhail says, acknowledging the man. "You got here faster than I thought."
"The situation required a faster response," the man says. His voice is smooth, controlled, and completely devoid of emotion.
"Irina, this is Konstantin Belov," Mikhail says, though he doesn't take his eyes off Artyom. "An old friend of the family. He’s here to help with the internal audit."
An audit. That’s a polite way of saying he’s the one who finds the traitors and makes them disappear.
"Mr. Belov," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
Konstantin gives me a nod that is so minimal it’s almost insulting. "Mrs. Morozova."
He turns back to the brothers, his presence acting like an anchor in the room, weighing everything down. He’s unsettling in a way I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s the control. Mikhail is a storm—you can see him coming, you can hear the thunder. Konstantin is the silence before the lightning.
I move toward Milana, who is fidgeting with the strap of her handbag. She hasn't looked at Konstantin once. In fact, she’s been staring at the floor since he started speaking.
"Hey," I whisper, leaning in toward her. "You okay?"
Milana jumps slightly, her eyes wide as she looks at me. "Oh. Irina. Yes. I’m just... I hate hospitals. The smell of the disinfectant makes me feel sick."
"It’s not just the hospital," I say, lowering my voice even further. I glance toward Konstantin, who is now speaking quietly with Mikhail and Artyom.
Milana’s grip on her bag tightens until her knuckles turn white. She looks toward the corner where Konstantin is standing, and for a split second, I see an emotion I can’t quite name in her eyes.
"He's unsettling," I prompt her. "Right?"
Milana swallows hard, her gaze darting back to me. She looks like she wants to run out of the room. "He’s Konstantin," she says, her voice a fragile thread. "He’s been around since we were children. He’s always been... like that."
"Like what? He looks like he’s made of stone."
"He is," Milana whispers.
She lets out a shaky breath and moves away, joining Calina on the other side of the room as if the mere act of talking about him is a danger.
I stay where I am, my gaze drifting back to Konstantin Belov. He’s standing there, listening to Mikhail describe the explosion, his face a complete mask of indifference.
I think about Mikhail’s fire, his rage, and his possessiveness. I think about how much I’ve feared his temper. But looking at Konstantin, I realize there may just be something much worse than a man who burns.
CHAPTER THIRTY
