Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Anissa
“Hmm.”
Inside, the large formal dining room hums with quiet conversation. Crystal glasses catch the chandelier’s light, throwing sharp reflections against the walls. I know who everyone in this room is.
Everyone except the woman who looks like my mirror image.
I barely register Semyon, his sisters Yana and Zoya, or even the man who was supposed to be my husband.
My gaze locks on the blonde. A hush falls over the room. Someone drops a glass. It shatters, sharp and brittle in the quiet. No one moves.
"Son of a bitch," Vadka mutters into his drink. "Who knew?"
Matvei exhales a sharp, amused breath. "Gleb, that’s who.”
I stare, unblinking, at the beautiful woman standing before me now. Willowy where I’m curvy, but the same white-blonde hair, the same blue eyes, the same upturned nose.
I’m dressed in dark-colored jeans and a black top with shiny, high-heeled boots, and she wears a simple pale-pink peasant dress tied at the waist paired with ivory flats.
“It’s good to finally meet you,” she says. It’s so bizarre hearing a voice so much like my own.
Polina.
I stare at her. Her hair is long like mine, falling down her back like silk sheets—pale, blonde, straighter. Mine’s wavy. But we have the same eyes, and where I know I’m jaded, her face is soft. Trusting.
God, I miss being able to trust someone.
She wears tiny gold hoops and no other jewelry, except for a gold band on her wedding finger, and I have a line of earrings that go all the way up my ear, gold bangled bracelets, and rings on several fingers.
She extends her hand to me.
“Polina Kopolova. You must be Anissa.”
“Yes.”
I’m usually bolder than this. Braver. But right now, I feel like a child.
“It’s nice to meet you too—except, please understand, I just found out about you. I didn’t even know I had a sister.”
“I know,” she whispers. Something unexpected that I can’t quite name passes between us.
And then we’re hugging.
I never hug strangers. But this… this feels right.
This woman is my sister.
And I am completely unprepared for the way I react. My eyes sting with tears, my throat tightens, and I can barely swallow past the lump rising in my throat…
Until a deep voice clears his throat beside Polina, and I jump back as if waking from a dream.
Right. Her husband, Rafail Kopolov himself. Fuck.
Is this where he puts me in stocks or lines me up in front of a firing squad?
One of Moscow’s most feared. Tenacious. Ruthless.
His reputation precedes him—a hardened criminal who shows no mercy.
I let her go as if she’s hot to the touch and force myself to meet his gaze without flinching despite the cold, merciless ice in his eyes.
Should I say… I’m sorry?
He is the only one here I have a history with. And none of it is good.
“Anissa,” he greets, his voice even, unreadable. “I have to say, I’m surprised.”
“Life is full of surprises,” I answer, unsure of what, exactly, he’s surprised about.
Why did I say that?
“I didn’t expect you’d look like my wife’s double in an alternate universe.” Someone barks out a cough, but no one talks as Rafail’s gaze narrows on me, assessing. Cold. Unforgiving.
And then Matvei is beside me, between me and Rafail.
He’s bigger than Rafail. And though he is outranked, there’s a steadiness to his presence that makes it easier to breathe. Wordlessly, he presses his hand to the small of my back. “Remember your promise to me, cousin,” he says in a low, quiet voice.
Not for the first time, I’m grateful he’s so possessive.
Rafail’s eyes narrow just slightly. There’s a tick in his jaw.
Finally, after a long pause, he nods. “I never go back on my promises.”
They don’t need to say it out loud. He’s promised Matvei that I’m his.
Matvei told me as much.
And by giving me to Matvei, I assume any retribution Rafail would seek is now void, but… it’s an assumption, and those are dangerous.
“Well, well, well,” an older, raspy voice says behind me. “We have mirror images here. In all my years, son…”
I turn. Matvei shadows me like he’s my bodyguard. I guess here… he is. His hand rests possessively on the small of my back.
The elderly man who spoke is hunched over, one gnarled hand gripping the curved end of a cane. His clothes are old and faded but neatly pressed, and there’s a twinkle in his sharp eyes.
“I was good friends with twins back in the day,” he continues, nodding sagely. “But they knew each other. This? This is the kind of thing they do on reality television, don’t they?”
He studies me, then Polina, before his gaze flickers back to me.
“Do you know what we say in Russia about twins in the family?” He smiles. “Two pairs of eyes, one soul.”
I blink. My throat is tight. Polina gives me a soft smile that almost negates the look of hatred from her husband.
The old man extends his hand. “They all just call me Grandfather,” he says. “Welcome, welcome.”
Then, his eyes harden as he waves his cane at Rafail and winks at me.
“I’ll make sure my grandson behaves himself.”
Polina clutches Rafail’s arm. “So will I.”
I nod to Grandfather. “Something tells me that cane isn’t just a prop.”
Someone snorts behind me, and another laugh follows. Sometimes, I think before I speak. Most of the time, I don’t.
A door in the corner of the room bursts open, revealing a bustling kitchen behind it. The air fills with the fragrant scent of garlic and onions, and my stomach twists with hunger.
A tall, fit woman with dark hair pulled into a merciless ponytail strides in, eyes warm as they land on me. Yana. And the youngest Kopolov sister, Zoya, follows close behind.
“You’re Yana and Zoya,” I say, nodding. “So nice to finally meet you.”
Yana smiles, extending her hand.
“That’s Semyon and his wife, Anya,” Matvei murmurs, nodding to a stern-looking man a bit older than Matvei with dark hair and glasses.
He stands by the bar, his expression unreadable as he glances my way.
His wife, the beautiful, auburn-haired Anya, stands beside him, murmuring something under her breath—lips barely moving.
Whatever it is, Semyon nods, then gives me a forced smile.
So yeah, these men like to get married.
The table is set beautifully—large platters of fresh bread, dishes of butter, glasses of water and wine beside each plate, and several sets of silverware. Zoya flits about the table, adjusting things.
“We don’t always eat this formally,” Zoya says, almost apologetically. “Most of the time, we just sit at the kitchen table. But we wanted to put on a good spread for you.”
A harsh voice speaks behind us. The shift in Matvei’s posture is instantaneous. “Why? For the woman who has Matvei acting like a madman.”
I turn, and my stomach drops as he hisses in a breath and curses.
No.
His parents.
“I thought they weren’t coming,” I whisper to him.
“They weren’t supposed to,” he whispers back.
His mother stares at me, her beady eyes raking over me in a way that makes me feel like an animal in a cage.
“This,” she sneers, “is how you dress for a Kopolov family dinner?”
Matvei goes rigid beside me. Muscles coiled. Barely leashed violence simmering beneath his skin.
I feel like I’ve been tossed into shark-infested waters, and I’m bleeding. He shifts—now between me and them, shielding me like he did with Rafail.
I swallow hard.
I’m not used to being protected like this.
His mother tilts her head as if waiting for him to agree or to remind me of my place, but he doesn’t even look at her.
“She looks beautiful.” He bends his mouth to mine and kisses me full on the lips, his hands tangled in my hair. It only lasts seconds, but the whole room seems to hold its collective breath. They all saw it.
His mother. Rafail.
Especially his mother and Rafail.
He’s already turned his back to her.
My heart beats madly as I feel the weight of everyone’s stares even before I sit down.
Matvei’s bitchy mother is the worst—her eyes sharp as a blade, making no pretense of kindness or even indifference.
His father is quieter, but his presence is no less painful, his scornful gaze going from me to Matvei and back again.
I wish they wouldn’t acknowledge my presence at all rather than treat me like some kind of misfit.
I’ve faced open hostility before, but there’s something uniquely irritating about this.
His mother makes a few snide remarks under her breath, and I swear I hear his father say something that sounds like “trash at the dinner table.”
Matvei notices immediately and sits up straighter.
“Is there a reason you two are acting like spoiled brats?” His voice is cold and cutting.
Is it too soon to say he’s my hero? I’m still sore from where he…
His mother straightens. “How dare you speak to us like that?” She turns to Rafail. “Aren’t you going to make him be respectful?”
Rafail’s voice is calm but firm. “I make everyone here behave respectfully toward those who deserve it. We have a truce with Anissa. She’s paid the consequences for what she did to my family. As she’s done nothing to you, so I don’t understand the open hostility either.”
I stare in surprise. Maybe there’s a reason Matvei respects him.
I can’t help but stare at his mother. Her lips press into a thin line. Today, instead of her usual ruby red, she’s wearing an offensive shade of pink that makes my eyes hurt. “We have every right to be concerned about—”
“You don’t,” Matvei interrupts, his voice hard and flat. The dismissal in his tone sends a chill through the room. Then, without a word, he places his hand on my thigh and gives me a gentle squeeze. Something in me melts a little.
Matvei’s eyes cut to Rafail, who nods, barely perceptible. It’s all it takes.
“You two sit here. By me.” His voice carries the weight of authority, just as I suspected.
The family patriarch, despite his younger years.
I know from my recent research—and what I was told—that he became the head of the family at eighteen, after his parents’ untimely death.
And though he’s barely in his early thirties, he carries the responsibility of a much older man.