Chapter 65 Chapter 65 Spain
Dimitri and I flew from Vegas to London, then on to Málaga, Spain—a beautiful town stretched along the Mediterranean coast, the birthplace of my favorite artist, Picasso. Illia’s place sat about thirty minutes from the airport. Dimitri keyed a code into the pad, and the gates rolled open, revealing a stunning beach house. Three stories, like Ivan’s—tan exterior, sleek modern design.
I step out of the car and grab my bag from him.
“Are you sure it’s okay that I’m here?” I ask, hesitating.
“Yes. My father knows you’re coming,” he says, grinning. “My brothers don’t.”
I tug my skirt down again. Why the hell am I wearing a skirt? The weather is nice enough—soft, coastal winter—but I feel exposed. I’ve got on a tan wool coat, knee-high boots, a mini skirt, and a sweater. In my suitcase: sweats, T-shirts, jeans, and a few dresses for dinner. I have no idea what these “family gatherings” look like. Considering it’s just Illia and his ten sons… I can’t stop wondering if any of them share the same mother.
I stare up at the house, suddenly intimidated. If the rest of them are anything like Dimitri and Ivan, this is going to be an interesting few days.
Four days.
I follow Dimitri up the steps to the front door. Two massive windows frame the metal double doors. He pushes them open, and loud voices spill into the foyer. Black walls. White marble floors. Nature landscapes line the walls, softened by tall green plants.
A slender, tall man walks toward us.
“Marco—hey. Take these to my room,” Dimitri says, handing over our bags.
Marco nods and disappears down the hallway.
Dimitri keeps moving, and I follow without questioning him—even though sharing a room might not be the smartest idea after what almost happened in my kitchen. The voices grow louder the deeper we go.
He stops at a wide opening.
I take a breath.
The noise crashes over us—laughter, shouting, a soccer match blaring on a massive screen. Dimitri steps forward, greeted by a chorus of voices.
I freeze.
“Diamond?” he says, reaching back for my hand.
I don’t move.
“Elena?”
“Yeah—sorry,” I murmur, slipping my hand into his.
He pulls me into full view of the room.
And I almost choke.
The oversized space opens out toward the sea, glass walls letting in endless blue. A massive black leather sectional wraps around the room, ottomans scattered in front. A wall-sized TV dominates one side, a pool table behind it, and a fully stocked bar along the back.
And them.
All of them.
Dimitri didn’t tell me I was walking into Mount Olympus.
They’re all built the same—broad shoulders, tall frames, that same dangerous confidence—but every single one looks different. Different shades, different features, like someone pulled from every corner of the world and gave them the same blueprint.
They all turn to look at us. Dimples appear. There it is, the other thing they all share.
For a second, no one says anything.
Then—
“No fucking girls! What the hell, Dimitri!” a voice snaps from behind me.
Dimitri turns me around, and I come face to face with someone who looks like a younger version of Illia, older version of Ivan—same presence, same authority—but with sharper edges. Blond hair, onyx eyes, broad shoulders.
His expression shifts the second he sees me.
“This is Illia Jr,” Dimitri says.
“Il—”
“I know who she is,” Illia Jr cuts in smoothly. “My apologies for the language, Elena.”
He takes my hand and presses a kiss to it.
I blink.
“Uh… hi.”
We step further into the room, and Dimitri starts introducing me.
“Sal—Spain.” Black hair, dark eyes, deep brown skin.
“Christian—Romania.” Brown hair, green eyes, pale skin.
“Leo—France.” Blond, blue-eyed, practically glowing under the lights.
They’re all watching me now, the game forgotten.
“Matteo—Italy.” Dark hair, warm brown eyes, golden tan.
“Arno—South Africa.” Deep skin tone, long dreads pulled back tight.
“Can—Turkey.” Curly dark hair, sharp brown eyes.
“Jax—US.” Strawberry blond hair, black eyes, a scar slicing through his eyebrow that makes him look permanently dangerous.
Same height. Same build. Same damn intensity.
The room quiets in a way that feels unnatural.
Then—
“Did everyone die in here or what?”
Ivan’s voice.
He strolls in casually, then stops dead when he sees me.
“Elena??? What are you doing here?”
I cross my arms. “Nice to see you too, asshole.”
The room explodes with laughter.
“You know Ivan?” Illia Jr asks.
“Yeah, we…” I hesitate for half a second, then shrug. “We’ve fucked a few times.”
More laughter.
Ivan’s face doesn’t change.
He walks over and drops onto the couch beside me, leaning in slightly.
“We did more than that,” he mutters under his breath.
I ignore him.
“And now you’re seeing Dimitri?” he asks, eyes narrowing.
“No,” Dimitri answers before I can. “Dimitri is her bodyguard while she deals with an asshole ex.” He smirks. “Dimitri just gets to watch her walk around in her underwear, eating ice cream in the middle of the night.”
Every single head turns toward me.
Great.
Ivan grabs Dimitri by the shirt. “You better not touch her.”
I roll my eyes. “You should be more worried about me touching him. I have a thing for brothers.”
Dimitri bursts out laughing. I follow, unable to help it.
Ivan doesn’t.
“God, Ivan, pull the stick out of your ass. I’m kidding.”
“She is not kidding,” Dimitri adds, grinning.
That’s it.
They’re on each other in seconds—running, chasing, shoving, grabbing, then full-on wrestling behind the couch like two overgrown children. The rest of the brothers crowd forward, shouting, laughing, placing bets.
The room comes alive again, louder than before.
I lean back against the couch, watching them, something tight loosening in my chest.
They’re chaos—but it’s warm chaos. Familiar in a way I don’t recognize. They’re close. Loud, messy, real.
I’ve never had that.
My father never cared for daughters—he already had one. My brothers got everything. Love, attention, approval. I got freedom… because I didn’t matter.
This—this is different.
“Stop hitting me, asshole!” Dimitri shouts from the floor. “Elena has something to tell you about Fedorov!”
That gets their attention.
They stop, both of them breathing hard, sprawled on their backs. Slowly, they turn their heads toward me.
The room quiets again.
I straighten slightly, suddenly very aware of all eyes on me.
“What game is this?” I try, nodding toward the TV.
“Elle,” Dimitri warns.
Damn it.
I sigh.
“Alek… um…” I hesitate, then just say it. “He moved to Vegas.”
Silence.
Not the loud kind.
The sharp kind.
I offer a small, awkward smile.