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 like that.
Without thinking, my fingers brush along the rough surface of the obsidian stone in my pocket. Protection. Power. I imagine I draw strength from it. Maybe we all could.
Vadka stands tall and silent. Stoic. He hasn’t spoken, not one word to anyone since the shooting, as if he’s afraid when he opens his mouth, he will fall to pieces. His jaw ticks once, like a pulse, but he’s otherwise marble. And it breaks my heart.
He stands beside the grave and doesn’t move. His sister-in-law Ruthie holds the tiny hand of a little boy dressed in a black suit who seems blissfully ignorant of the horror before him. I wish he wasn’t here, but the Bratva will do what they feel is right. And shielding children from brutality is a luxury they don’t seem to afford.
Ruthie sniffs, then breaks into loud, choking sobs. She clutches a scarf to her chest and presses it to her eyes. Silently, Yana comes to her side, wraps an arm around her shoulder, and Ruthie’s head falls to Yana’s chest. She weeps as Zoya wordlessly kneels in front of the small boy, says something in a soft voice, then lifts him in her arms and takes a little walk.
Vadka doesn’t move.
A line of Kopolov men stand shoulder to shoulder, dressed in identical black suits, wearing identical hard expressions and black armbands to signify mourning. Even Rodion is still and solemn as Rafail steps forward and drops a small bouquet of flowers on the grave.
They each follow suit. One by one.
Each steps forward, dropping flowers on the grave and a little token—a picture, a scrap of something personal. Bratva tradition.
Matvei hooks an arm around my waist, grounding us. Silently, his fingers link with mine. Present. Warm. Unshakeable.
We stand in silence as Semyon builds a fire. It starts small, and then each man, in turn, tosses dry wood on top, one stick at a time. We stand in silence, watching the fire grow in strength and heat with each stick, until it’s a glowing furnace.
I watch and stare. Proud to be part of this family. Proud to stand shoulder to shoulder.
Yana approaches from behind. Ruthie stands nearby, holding her nephew, Zoya’s hand in hers. Yana, unlike the men, is dressed in light gray. A quiet rebellion, maybe.
“You two,” she whispers, “belong to each other. Today, we mourn what we lost. And you remind us that we keep living. Stronger together.”
I belong now, and that’s both beautiful and terrifying. Because this family protects what’s theirs and destroys anything that gets in its way.
I blink hard, tears falling. I’ve never wanted to be wanted like this.
I belong.
Yana smiles. “She would’ve wanted us to plan your wedding.”
Matvei tenses but doesn’t look at us.
Yana nods. “We lose, and we gain.” She eyes me thoughtfully. “I look forward to welcoming you to our family, Anissa.”
The fire burns, and the war is coming.
But today?
Today, we remember.
And today, we begin again.
Later, after the fire dies and the sky goes to pitch, we gather inside. I like that no one wants to go home. The long table is dressed in black with crystal accents. It’s an odd blend here today as we gather to eat together. Mourning for a life lost. Celebration for our engagement. Or just… family.
The Kopolovs have a way of rolling with grief, not being brought down by violence and fear. Matvei’s hand rests on my thigh, a quiet and immovable weight. I like it.
Across from us, Rafail nurses a drink. He’s different than I thought he would be. In my mind, I built him up as a monster to be feared, but I see how he is with his family and Polina. Loyal. Stern, yes, but human. He smiles at me and lifts his drink. I truly think he’s forgiven me for running. He lifts his glass with a nod that feels like a benediction and a warning wrapped together. And maybe it is.
“Turns out you were just what the bastard needed, Anissa.” He tips his chin toward Matvei.
Polina smirks beside him, tapping her nail lightly on the crystal rim of her glass. “Indeed.”
A car pulls up outside the window. Polina’s eyes widen. “Oh, I didn’t know she meant she was coming now.”
I open my mouth to ask for details when out steps a regal
woman, older but not frail—silver hair swept into a neat bun, a pale pink sweater softening her sharp profile, slim-fitting jeans.
I know her.
It hits me like a blow to the chest.
She’s Polina’s mother. The woman that adopted her. I freeze, when a warm hand moves to the nape of my neck and gives a gentle squeeze. “Relax,” Matvei says in my ear. “You’ll like her. I promise.”
Polina goes to open the door, then gestures. “Mama, there’s someone special I want you to meet. Anissa, this is Ekaterina Romanova. My mother.”