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)
He clamps his mouth shut, his thin lips forming a perfect O before he swallows hard. Good. A wise man knows that sometimes silence speaks much louder than words.
I turn to face my family, my voice booming. “I’m calling an end.”
My youngest sister, Zoya, jumps in her chair, though my sister Yana sits ramrod straight and doesn’t move. She holds my gaze and gives me a slight nod of encouragement. Steadfast and loyal with sharp eyes that seem to take in everything around her, Yana has an aura of calm and stillness, though underneath, she is always thinking. Resilience is her middle name.
Zoya, however, is delicate and sensitive, and I feel like a dick for making her jump. Her kind, wide eyes are fixed on me. Shit. She’s the only one who can make me feel guilty for raising my voice.
When she gives me her small, little smile, I swallow hard and nod, asking her forgiveness. She inclines her head, and her eyes grow soft—granting it.
One family, one fight—never apart.
I don’t miss the way her fingers tighten on the small matte-black purse she carries, her own family heirloom. If I don’t marry, I’ll have no choice but to marry her off since Yana’s already married. The thought fucking kills me. She’s seventeen years old and still a child in my eyes. I can’t do that to her. I fucking won’t.
It is for her—it is for all of them—that I’m even here.
Beside her, my grandfather sits, his back ramrod straight, but his eyes warm with reassurance. One gnarled hand rests atop his cane, the other on Zoya’s shoulder. His gaze tells me everything I need to know—he has total confidence that I’ll handle this.
I stare out the stained-glass window, a brutal yet somehow beautiful depiction of the beheading of St. John the Baptist, and past it to the graveyard where my life changed forever.
It was there that I witnessed the burial of my parents. There that I buried my youth. There that I became the guardian of my siblings, inherited my family’s wealth and every one of their enemies.
I made a vow that day that I would be buried alongside my parents before I would allow anyone to break our family apart.
And now Anissa has done that very thing. What would cause her to run from me, knowing my wrath was inevitable?
My knuckles whiten where I clench my fist, aching for the chance at retribution. I blow the breath out through my nose when footsteps approach me, and a heavy hand comes to my shoulder.
"We’ll find her, Rafail."
I know it’s my uncle based on the smell of his cologne before I even turn to see. His wife loves to doll him up like he’s her personal plaything. Fuck, maybe he is. “We will. No one can hide from us in this city."
I turn and face the priest, pinning him to the spot, determined to maintain civility and control. "Tell me what I owe you for this farce, Father.”
"No, no," he says magnanimously. "No charge, Mr. Kopolov. I didn’t perform the duty that you hired me for."
I shake my head. "I appreciate that, Father, but it is exceptionally bad luck not to pay for services rendered by the Church. Even debts to God have to be paid, or we know the repercussions."
When he begins to protest, I hold my hand up, palm facing him, and his words die on his lips. "And you don’t have to give me that whole thing about not performing any services yet. I won’t bring down superstition on my house." I give him a humorless smile, reach into my pocket, and take out my wallet. I peel off a thick stack of bills and hand them to him. "I’ll be making a donation to the food pantry as well."
Good luck comes from donations to the Church. I don’t tempt fate.
"Thank you, Mr. Kopolov," the priest says, his voice trembling. The bastard probably expected the roof to cave in—or maybe expected me to hit him. He doesn’t have to worry about that. I don’t touch a man of the cloth unless he proves himself to deserve it.
"Thank you, thank you. And when you find your bride," he says, unnecessarily cheerful, "let me know right away, and I will perform the ceremony you came here for. I promise," he adds with a smile.
I nod and turn abruptly.
"Everyone back to the house," I unbutton my cufflinks and rolling up my sleeves.
It’s time to get to work.
My enemies circle like predators, sniffing for blood. And as soon as word gets out that I was jilted at the altar, they’ll close in.
Our plan was to go back to my home and have dinner in the dining room. Now, instead of a celebratory dinner, we’ll plan our next move. Not an attack but a strategy.