Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Rodion
I wake up determined. Today, I’ll make choices my brothers can respect—choices that prove I’m more than the reckless, impulsive wildcard they expect.
This is the day I turn things around.
Last night, when she wouldn’t reply to my messages anymore, I tagged her in another video. And even though I get the notification that she watched it, she still didn’t reply to me.
I roll over, and something cold hits my chest. My phone. I shake my head at it and push it under a pillow near my head.
Nope.
Get away from me.
I spent all night flirting with a woman I’ve never met and never will, letting her words slip into places they have no business being.
Reckless. Stupid.
Addictive.
It’s my fault I’m all the way in California while the rest of my family’s in Russia.
I can still hear Rafail, the disappointment in his voice worse than any punishment he could’ve levied.
You have to keep a handle on your anger, Rodion. You’re not a child anymore.
He was right, of course. I didn’t have to make a public spectacle of punishing the fucking traitor.
I scrub a hand across my brow and blow out a breath.
I can do this.
And I won’t fuck this up by flirting and risking it all by putting myself out there on stupid social media.
I shake my head and get to my feet when another buzz from my phone sounds.
I stare at the pillow, vibrating with message after message.
If it were Rafail and I ignored him…
I scratch at my bicep and roll my eyes heavenward. Everyone has to take a piss or make a fucking cup of coffee… right? Wrong, when it comes to my brother. I can hear him now. “You only need one hand to take a leak. Use the other to check my messages.”
I am going to get on Rafail’s good side no matter what it takes. I will prove to him I’m not the tagalong he thinks I am.
I reach for my phone and check my messages.
Good thing.
Rafail
Saw the work you did yesterday, read the files and your report. Well done, Rodion. Talk’s died down, people are starting to forget.
Pride blossoms in my chest. I was still a child when my parents died, and Rafail became guardian of my family.
He’s like a father to me and pleasing him matters.
Semyon, four years younger than Rafail but still older, is colder, more detached, but that’s just his personality.
He’s as faithful to my family as any of us, and I fucking hate that he got screwed over.
I have to make this right.
All of it.
One down, two to go. Trailed Dovinksy last night and he’s on par for being predictable as fuck once more. Anything else you need to share?
The little dots next to Rafail’s name pop up, but instead of a text message, an image of his newborn son comes onto the screen.
My god.
A lump actually rises in my throat. I haven’t cried since we got news of my parents’ death.
I didn’t even cry the day we buried them.
Semyon, Rafail, and I, along with two of my cousins, were the pallbearers.
As is tradition, we tossed the dirt on the casket first. My baby sister Zoya openly wept as I hugged her, the only one of us who did.
Yana wasn’t close with my father and had her own struggles she kept close to the vest. Semyon was damn near stoic, and I would’ve sworn carved of ice if I hadn’t seen the way he melted toward little Zoya, and Rafail was a statue.
But something about seeing that baby… that precious little bundle, wrapped in a swaddled blanket, his little fist to his mouth, white-blond hair like his mama’s crowning his perfectly round little head… it moves something in me. I swallow the lump in my throat.
Rafail
This little champ slept for five hours straight. We’re feeling half-human again. He’s eating up a storm and outgrew the newborn sleepers already
I stifle a snort. Rafail Kopolov, Moscow’s most feared, chatting about newborn sleepers and his little champ of a son. My eyes are a little blurry. I’ve always had a soft spot for the vulnerable. I can’t help it.
He’s got your eyes, brother. He looks so much like you, except for the hair
Rafail
All I see is my wife when I look at him, but I couldn’t be more proud
Semyon
Lucky him. That could’ve worked out pretty fucking bad for him
Give it time. Still might get his daddy’s take-no-prisoners attitude and chip on the shoulder. Too soon to tell
We ease from conversation about the baby to our sisters.
Yana’s in Cape Town with her husband Danila, Zoya’s started her first year at university, Grandfather’s taken up golf despite pushing eighty-two, and my uncle and aunt have taken what Rafail calls a “much-needed vacation to the Mediterranean.” In other words, he wanted them out of his fucking hair.
I miss my family. I miss home. I miss my little sister Zoya’s cooking and Rafail’s hardass ways. I miss lifting with Semyon and drinking vodka with Matvei.
I will not fuck this up.
Guilt plagues me. If they knew what I did… that I put myself out there for the whole world to see… that I was flirting with an influencer and using my identity as Bratva to take advantage of the situation…
But no. No one can really tell I’m Bratva, unless they know the meaning of my tats.
I have to delete this account. It’s stupid as fuck, and logical, sober me in the light of day, realizes what an idiotic thing I’ve done.
I have to delete this before anyone finds out.
But it’s my only link to her.
I head to the shower when my phone buzzes again. I pick it up to see what one of my brothers forgot to tell me when I see… it isn’t a text notification.
I frown. I thought I shut off notifications to my account, which is growing by leaps and bounds. It’s only been a week, and I already have tens of thousands of followers. My video with the belt and the goddamn pillows has over 2.5 million views already.
What can I say? The dopamine hit is real.
And so’s my growing attraction to Ember.
I frown at my phone. If she were mine, I’d punish the shit out of her for making her real name so easy to find. Rookie mistake, maybe. But what if some asshole decided to stalk her?
I stroke my chin.
Not a bad idea, really—
God. I can’t do this. I CANNOT.
The little notification begs to me on-screen. I shake my head.
I won’t do it. I can’t. I’m a grown man, for Christ’s sake, not some teen who needs the online fawning of thirsty women to stroke his fucking ego. My finger hovers over the button that reads delete account.
It’s the right thing to do.
I shouldn’t be here. It’s dangerous and reckless and juvenile as fuck.
Still, before I go… I could take one more peek at those gorgeous green eyes of hers. Just one more before I shut this shit down for good and do something responsible with my life.
I walk to the kitchenette in the penthouse as if doing something practical with my time will somehow make it all better and erase my guilt.
Coffee. I need coffee.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the microwave reflection. My hair’s askew, but just yesterday, I saw a video of a guy making coffee in boxers, and the women went wild. If I—
No.
No, no, no, no, NO.
I have better things to do than post videos vying for Ember’s attention.
Still, I’m all alone here, totally womanless, dying for a good fucking lay.
Who could blame me if I want another mild hit of dopamine?
I don’t care as much about the random flirtatious comments I get from the women online, but my notifications tell me every time she sees me, and so far this week, she’s seen every one of my videos.
It’s harmless.
I’m not fucking her.
I mean, not that I wouldn’t if I had the—
No. STOP.
My mind circumvents the lame attempt at maturity.
Who is she?
What does she like?
What makes her happy or sad?
Is she outgoing, or does she keep to herself? Does she have any pets?
Is she vanilla?
I groan at the instant hard-on I get imagining her tied up and begging for me, but maybe… maybe those videos are just for clicks. She can’t… really be into that shit she talks about.
Can she?
It doesn’t matter. I grab my inner voice by the throat and toss my lack of focus against the wall.
It needs a stern talking to.
GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER, MAN.
I throw my phone across the counter and wince when it slides right past the coffee machine and cracks against the wall.
I didn’t mean to throw it that hard. I sheepishly walk over, pick it up, and check. Thank fuck, these things are made from military-grade glass these days. No damage.
I blow out a breath and close my eyes, grounding myself in the scent of strong coffee.
Coffee.
Gym.
Food. Shake.
Work.
In that order, period.
I take my coffee cup and open the mini fridge, pour some creamer into it, and lean against the counter while I sip it, like a mature adult who has his shit together and is going to plan his day.
I put the camera on my phone and hit the filter app thing I found from a Google search when my eyes catch the corner of one of the masks I used to film a video last night.
I’m not a one-mask guy like some of the broke losers I see who think shirtless is all it takes to satisfy the discriminating needs of these online women.
Nope.
They want a real man. A man with some bulk on him, some tats, who covers his face for the sake of a little tease, not because he’s got a hairless baby face that belongs behind the screen of a video game monitor, instead of mature, respectful women like my followers.
I grab the first mask that comes to hand and slide it over my head.
One more for the sake of the memories.
I hold up my coffee.
My time here has come to an end, beautiful. I have work to do, and this is all too distracting.
I shake my head in mock sadness, though, honestly, it’s not much for show. For the past few nights, interacting with Ember online, with her sharp wit and tongue, it felt a little less… lonely.
But I have to stop this before I get in real trouble. Before Rafail finds out.
I grab a quick soundtrack. I don’t edit my videos. I like ’em raw and untamed. I post the video and toss my phone down.
I watch it come on the screen.
I sigh.
I already have fifty likes and half as many comments.