Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
I lean in, voice pure fucking ice. “I might not be so nice.”
“Be careful,” my father growls. “You’re loyal to a fault.”
I turn to him, eyes narrowing. “I don’t have a brand seared into my back with your name on it, do I?”
He swallows and shakes his head.
Anissa whistles.
“Irma, let’s go.”
“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” Anissa calls sweetly after them as the door shuts.
We look at each other in silence for a long minute. She doesn’t speak, just traces her finger along the rim of her glass.
“Got the shit end of the stick with parents, eh?” But her eyes are pained when she sips the vodka.
I shake my head. We drink in silence for long minutes. The sun has begun to set outside, but I don’t move to turn any lights on. I like the dark.
“When were you going to tell me about my sister?” she asks quietly, her throat working up and down.
“Tonight.”
“Before or after I met her?” She doesn’t hide the note of sadness in her voice. “No wonder he didn’t come after me. Jesus. A sister.” She shakes her head. “That’s so fucking weird.”
“You have a mother too. She’s in New York. Matriarch of the Romanov family.”
Her eyes widen. She’s never had a mother. I have no clue how that lands.
“And when were you going to tell me about your brother?” she asks. “There’s more to that story, and it sounds fucking brutal, Matvei.”
“Eventually. Probably when we were snuggled up on the couch, sharing our hopes and dreams.” I shrug a shoulder. “Funny, we haven’t gotten there yet.”
She chews her lip. Thoughtful.
“Any other siblings?”
I shake my head. “Not anymore.”
She blows out a breath, meeting my eyes. “Another story for another day?”
“Yeah.”
I sip my vodka, and the alcohol surges through my veins. I need to eat. We both do.
Her gaze drifts to the kitchen clock. “When are Rafail and Polina coming?”
“We’ve got two hours.”
She nods. “Enough time for me to wash and dry my clothes, right?”
“Yeah. Or we can buy you new ones.”
“Maybe another day. This one’s been long enough.”
No fucking shit.
I lean against the wall, sipping my drink. “Do you think the small talk will help me forget that I told you not to leave the room? How long did you last? Thirty seconds?”
With a shrug, she looks away. “More or less. I didn’t like the tone of voice they were taking with you.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “You’re still in trouble.”
Her heated gaze meets mine. “Is that a promise?”
I shake my head. It’s a fucking prophecy.
Chapter 11
ANISSA
I have a sister.
A sister.
The revelation circles my head like a vulture waiting to swoop. Another secret. Another twist.
This is the strangest turn of events I could have imagined. Just when I think I have control of the situation, even the tiniest little modicum of control, he throws me another curveball.
And now his family. His parents are assholes. I’ve seen his mother’s type, the kind of shallow, brittle woman who goes to charity galas for the accolades but hides her venom behind the glitter.
Yet another thing we have in common.
Great. We could start a club. Children of monsters.
I have a mother too? And I'm going to meet the man whose life I apparently destroyed in a matter of hours. I didn’t think I could ever get back to a place where I was insecure or afraid. I run head-on toward fear, toward discomfort, because I’ve found that’s what makes me stronger. But now, my mind is spinning with the most mundane question: What am I going to wear?
And why is he not really afraid of me running anymore?
I also heard him loud and clear when he told his mother—that catty excuse for a mother anyway—that I would be the mother of his children. Dear god. Children.
Ha. I’ll have the last word on that one.
“Hmm. With no real time to go shopping," I say, working my lip. "I can't exactly go to the shop wearing the elephant-sized T-shirt."
I don't normally mind standing out, but this is different.
He nods, scowling, thinking.
"I'll call Rodion."
I know that Rodion is his cousin—Rafail's younger brother. Maybe they're close.
"Rodion's going to have women's clothes?"
"No, but his wife probably will."
His wife.
Maybe choosing ignorance over the Kopolov Bratva wasn’t my smartest strategy.
I nod, thinking.
"That's probably the best option. I don't even think the clothes I brought will be ready in time."
I look down at my nails—short, chipped, clean because of the shower, but barely presentable.
I washed my hair, but it dried into a frizzy mess. I have no makeup, no jewelry. I don’t even have a razor.
What am I thinking? Since when have I cared about this bullshit?
Since now.
Since I’m back in Russia with women who dress well and take pride in their appearance, that’s when.
I get up to use the bathroom. “Where’s your bathroom?”