Chapter 11 #4
He’s less angry than Rafail. Hell, they all are.
Maybe they haven’t had to face what he has.
Anger radiates off Rafail in waves—it's in the tone of his voice, the cut of his eyes, the familiar downturn of his lips. Even without my memories, I’m sure I’ve never known anyone as angry as him.
And, yeah, there’s a part of me that can’t help but want to fix him.
Not my job, I know, but… it’s only instinct, really.
Rafail pulls out a chair for me, his grip steady and commanding as he helps me sit. His voice is calm but carries an edge as he continues the introductions. “This is Rodion,” he says, gesturing to the man standing just behind him.
Rodion’s stance is deceptively relaxed, but there’s a tautness in his movements like he’s ready to strike at the slightest provocation.
His scant beard shadows a face that holds a mix of mischief and menace, his sharp eyes flashing with a dangerous gleam.
For an instant, a smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, but it vanishes as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a look that seems both appraising and faintly amused as if he’s already one step ahead of everyone in the room.
He gives me a single nod. “Hey,” he says, his voice low and casual, but there’s a note beneath it that’s almost predatory, and I don’t trust the way his gaze shifts away from me as though he’s afraid I’ll see who he really is—or Rafail will.
“Hey,” I reply, my voice softer than I intended, the intensity in his gaze unsettling.
I glance back at Rafail, catching a flicker of something sharp in Rodion’s eyes when he looks at his brother. Respect, perhaps, but tinged with something darker—a wary kind of fear or maybe an unspoken rivalry.
“You met Yana?” She nods and gives me a small smile. There’s a reserved pain behind her eyes, the kind that only comes from experience. I get the distinct feeling she keeps her life close to the vest and only trusts a select few. I want to be one who she trusts.
“And you know Zoya,” Rafail adds. The sweet girl, wearing jeans and a modest tee, her hair in a ponytail, smiles softly at me. You wouldn’t know who she was—or, more accurately, who her brothers were.
“How’s your pain level, Anissa?” Zoya’s voice is soft, full of concern—always the caretaker, always the one trying to mend what’s broken. Her wide, watchful eyes track my movements as if she’s afraid I’m going to fall apart.
I smile, trying to ignore the throbbing in my temples.
“Better with the meds.” I glance down at the table, at the plate of slightly overdone eggs and dark-brown toast that’s barely edible spread with butter that’s still lumpy.
“Did you… cook breakfast?” I’m trying not to be insulting, but it’s hard to imagine the feast of the other night was prepared by the same hands.
“Oh, um, no,” Zoya stammers, shifting nervously, her hands clasped together as if she’s trying to hide something. “It was Rodi’s turn today. I like when it’s my job, but we take turns. Rafail’s rules.”
“She’s being modest,” Rodion mutters from across the table, leaning in with a crooked smile. “We all prefer when it’s her turn.”
Rafail smacks Rodion’s arm. Rodion snorts and buries his face into a cup of coffee, but the smirk remains. He fears his older brother, but not so much that he doesn’t speak his mind or forget his sense of humor.
Semyon, the family observer, it seems, chuckles. “You can thank him for this.” He nods toward Rafail. “He decided learning how to cook was a life skill we all needed. Said something about not being reliant on others. And some of us are… well, better than others.”
“I can grill steak,” Rodion offers with a shrug. “That’s all I can cook, but it’s a good one.”
“I’d… eat steak for breakfast,” I say helpfully.
The others snicker, except Rafail, who blows out an impatient breath.
It feels like a normal family for a brief moment—if not for the dark undercurrent that flows through the room.
They hold secrets and fears they haven’t yet revealed to me.
Rafail’s face is unreadable as he fills a plate and pushes it in front of me.
He pours himself a cup of coffee, then turns to me.
“Do you like coffee?” His voice is low and controlled as usual, his dark gaze flickering to me before he amends his question with an almost uncharacteristic stammer.
“I mean… today. Sometimes you drink it, and sometimes you don’t. ”
Awkward silence hangs in the air between us before I nod. I’m not used to him being unsure, much less deferring to me. Silence stretches before I shrug. “I think so. It depends.”
His brow furrows. “On what?”
“Um, who made it?”
Laughter erupts around us, and something loosens in my chest. Zoya’s eyes dance at me. “I made the coffee.”
I nod seriously. “Then yes, please.”
I take a sip of the coffee. It’s black and bitter, and I wince at the taste. Rafail slides a carton of cream toward me without meeting my eyes. “You like it with cream,” he says, his voice low. I pour it in and give the cup a stir, finding the taste much more bearable now. “Yes, I like it.”
"You don’t remember what you like or who you are?" Zoya asks gently.
"Yes, and it’s unsettling," I admit. "I had a dream last night that felt so real before I woke up and realized that waking up feels like a dream too."
Zoya gives me a sympathetic look, but Rafail cuts in, shifting the conversation.
“Let’s go over the plans for the day.” He turns to me.
“Today, you’ll have that appointment with the doctor.
Yana, make the appointment.” He goes off on a litany of tasks for all of them. Some make sense to me, and some don’t.
“Zoya, reach out to the Popovs today. I want them to know we still honor our agreements despite everything going on.”
She nods and says something quietly with her back to us. “On it.”
“Semyon, circle back and make sure that shipment arrives tonight without a hitch.” His voice lowers. “No mistakes this time.”
Semyon nods but sits straighter, clearing his throat. I can tell he’s the type who rarely makes mistakes, and definitely not the same one twice. He takes pride in perfection and doing his job. “Of course.”
“Rodion, I want you to meet with Vory and let them know we’re watching.” He holds his youngest brother’s gaze. “Make it clear I don’t trust them, but remember you’re the messenger.”
Rodion blows out a breath, his shoulders slumping as he opens his mouth to protest, but Rafail cuts him off, sharp and direct.
“Don’t fuck this up, Rodion. I’m not saying it again.
” He leans in closer, his eyes narrowing, his voice low and dangerous.
“You remember what happened last time, right? If I have to leave Anissa to drag your ass out of another mess, you’re gonna wish you’d never left the house. ”
His glare is so intense that even I shrink back in my chair, a little voice in my head already whispering, Whatever you do, just don’t get on his bad side.
Rodion lets out a long, dramatic sigh, rolling his eyes but eventually nodding. “Alright, alright. Got it.” He glances at me, giving a half smirk. “See what I have to put up with?”
Rafail ignores him and goes back to issuing orders.
“Yana.” She’s on her phone, presumably pulling out the number he asked her for.
“Check on the financials for the front companies. Make sure everything looks clean as hell. I heard rumors of auditors breathing heavily down the neck of a few friends. We’re squeaky clean. ”
She nods and crosses her legs gracefully. “Obviously.”
“And I need to talk with Danila. He reached Bangkok this morning, yes?”
Her eyes meet his warily. “About what? You promised me he wouldn’t get involved in family business.” Her wedding band glints in the overhead lighting. I’m gonna guess Danila is her husband.
“And I’ll keep my promise. That doesn’t mean I don’t get to talk to him about you.” He holds her gaze. “You’re my sister. I don’t care if you’re married. You’re part of this family, and I want to make sure you’re safe, especially when your husband is traveling.”
My heart melts a little.
The rest of them begin clearing the table, but Zoya stays near me, always eager to help. "I'll help in the kitchen," she says, but Rafail snaps again. “No. Sit.”
She quickly takes her place and sits.
I turn to him with a raised brow. "Do you always tell them what to do like this?” I bite back a sarcastic reply that I don’t think he’d appreciate and remember his admonition. “Rafail… relax.”
“Listen,” he says, leaning forward, his eyes dark and unflinching.
The blunt tips of his rough fingertips press together.
“This isn’t a request, Anissa. It’s a partnership, one my siblings will be as familiar with as you.
You’ll learn how things work around here and fast.” His voice drops, cold and sharp.
Poor Zoya flinches. “I always take care of what’s my responsibility—but you give me everything in return. No questions.”
“Zoya, help me with the dishes?” Rodion asks. She scurries out of the room before Rafail can stop her.
I find myself asking, “You don’t have staff that work for you? With a house this size, I would've thought you’d have people to cook and clean.”
“We do,” Rafail admits. “But my parents taught us the value of hard work. Independence is important.”
I nod, digesting this. "Interesting, Mr. Self-Sufficient. And yet, we seem to be getting along quite well."
Rafail smirks but offers no more details. I feel more awake now, the effects of the medication wearing off, and I’m starting to orient myself. The memory of who I was still escapes me, but I can feel bits and pieces slowly resurfacing.
I sit quietly. My job for today is observation, and one thing I note with certainty is that while everybody jokes and laughs with a camaraderie that is fitting for siblings, there's an underlying tone of respect they all have for Rafail. He's definitely more father figure than brother.