Chapter 7 #3
Right. Wow. Okay, then. Just a father. I’m like Beauty from Beauty and the Beast; only her father actually cared about her. Lucky me.
"Just so we’re clear, I will not have my wife communicating with someone who would sell her off like that."
I turn this over in my mind. I don't know how to mourn the loss of someone I don't even remember, but it still hits my heart. People should have mothers and fathers. And some people maybe should have siblings too.
“I don't know why I would want to be in touch with someone I don't know, much less someone who thought so little of me, but okay then.”
We are approaching a doorway at the end of a hall, and my heart beats frantically faster. I don't know what's coming.
“You haven’t answered all the questions.” I’m buying time, terrified about what he’ll do when we’re alone in our bedroom.
His brow furrows as if he's puzzled or he's confused. "I've answered everything you asked me."
"Not quite. I asked you what happened to the people who hit me with the car."
I watch as his jaw firms and his shoulders seem to expand. I’ve stoked his anger. "I’ll admit, I may have lost my temper."
Oh god. Somehow, I knew he’d respond like this, but I’m still unprepared for the way my heart races in fear. I don't know what it would look like if a man like him lost his temper. Even when he's on his best behavior, he's terrifying.
"Oh?" I ask. I wince when he steps over the threshold.
"I'm sorry," he says softly. "I'm trying not to jostle you."
"It's fine," I lie. It's not fine. It hurts so badly I'm crying. I turn my face away from his so he doesn't see it. I know intuitively that he wouldn't like that. And I want to hear him answer the questions I asked.
"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.
"Say that again." I wonder what his expectations are. "How long have you been your siblings' guardian? Eleven years?”
“Yes.”
Yikes. I always thought it was kind of sweet, even poignant, when a brother stepped up to guard his siblings in the role of father figure. Maybe my primal instincts tell me he’d do well as a father to my own children. Maybe it shows he’s dependable and trustworthy.
But I don’t know anything about him, not really. Perhaps he's incredibly permissive, letting them get away with murder. I give him a second look. No, that definitely wouldn't be his downfall. He’s probably the opposite—overbearing and authoritarian.
God. Maybe I should just wait and see and not make any rash judgments. I should probably stop trying to figure it all out right this minute.
"I have an uncle and aunt who live nearby," he says, "but they don't live here. I have staff as well. You did, too, Anissa."
That triggers a faint memory. I can't give him names or places, but I remember someone cooking in the kitchen, mopping the floors, folding laundry.
"Mmm. Yes. So what will you expect of me?" I ask, suddenly unsure. Am I supposed to be cooking? Cleaning? Taking care of the younger ones? Would that be strange? No, they're probably old enough not to need anyone like a mother.
"I’ve told you," he says, his voice soft but firm. "You’re expected to do what you're told."