Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
"They were reckless. You could've been killed." His voice is choked, his anger palpable. I look down to note the veins in his arms, strong muscles, tan skin, and black marks of ink that are vaguely familiar but not identifiable, like markings out of focus.
"I told you I took care of it. Someone was reckless enough to hurt my wife, and I handled it the way I had to. Trust me—no one will make that mistake again."
His voice is as dark as a whispered threat. “When someone hurts what’s mine, they live to regret it. If the streets of St. Petersburg could talk…” His gaze is distant for a moment, as if he’s remembering past deeds. What has he done?
I bite my lip, unsure if I want details and uncertain if I want to stay ignorant.
“Right,” I whisper.
“You’re mine,” he growls, his voice a low, dangerous whisper without a hint of comfort or love, nothing but stark obsession. It seems as if this assurance should bring me a measure of comfort, but the latent warning in his tone makes me tremble.
He continues in a low rumble. "I made an example of the person who hurt you," he says. "It wasn't pretty, and you don't need the details. Do you know who I am, Anissa?"
I shake my head. "My husband," I say, my voice wobbling. The medication he gave me has made me sleepy, and I want to go to bed, but I have to push through. “All I know is that you’re my husband.”
"Yes, but since you don't remember who you are, I'm going to assume you don't know what my job is." He blows out a breath. “We’ll get there.”
We're walking down a long hallway. The rubber soles of his boots are practically silent on the gleaming hardwood floors. It's simple, sophisticated. The home smells like old wood, reminiscent of a library. Large blossoms in a rust-colored glass vase sit on a side table. Everywhere I look, there's bright light. I have the strange thought that someone like him needs a lot of light to give him something to hope for. To shine light in the darkness. If he lived in a cavern or a place with closed blinds, the abyss would swallow him. It hurts to turn my head, so I only take in what's in my immediate surroundings.
If he's my husband… "Is it just the two of us? In a house like this? It looks enormous."
He shakes his head gently, careful not to disturb me, careful not to jostle my cast.
"No," he says quietly. "Definitely not just us." When he doesn't offer any more information, I push a little more.
"Zoya? Your sister?" And then a horrible thought strikes me. "Not your parents," I add, unable to imagine being married to a man like him in the presence of his parents.
"I suppose we're jumping right into the middle, aren't we?" he says with a thoughtful look. His face deepens into a frown, and he doesn't speak for long minutes, as if he's trying to condense a lifetime into just a few sentences
He continues to walk with purpose, taking large strides, but careful not to jostle me too much.
"My name is Rafail Kopolov," he says. "Does that mean anything to you?"
His name stirs something faint but nothing familiar, an echo bouncing in a vast, empty room. I remember a chill in the air, distant city lights blinking like stars. I remember the shout of a voice… anger. A chase.
But no, his name is unfamiliar.
I shake my head. Nothing.
"My own name doesn't mean anything when you say it," I tell him. "I'd like to talk to a doctor. I need to know when my memory will come back."
"Your father is involved in various aspects of organized crime," he continues quietly. "And I am the head of the Kopolov Moscow branch. My father died young, like his father before him. A curse, some say, though I don’t believe in superstition the way most here do. But the Kopolov name carries with it a legacy.” His voice sharpens. “One I intend to protect.”
I swallow and nod.
“We’re Bratva, Anissa.”
I blink.
Bratva. Familiarity rings with fear and awe. I know the Bratva. Russian organized crime. Lethal. Powerful.
Familiar.
“Eleven years ago, my parents were killed. As the eldest, I became the legal guardian of my family and pakhan.”
Wait. Legal guardian of his family?
“Oh. Oh, wow. How many of you are there?”
His jaw firms. “I have two brothers and two sisters under my care. They came into my care as minors. My brothers work but sometimes stay here as well.”
"I see. So you're the legal guardian of Zoya, that sweet girl I met earlier?"
He nods. "And a few other not-so-sweet siblings you'll meet eventually."
Alright then.
My mind wanders. It's beautiful, in a strange way, this concept that maybe it's just the two of us. I can still hear him, though, and it would be foolish to ignore what he's saying.