Chapter 3
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.
I smile to myself over them.
So we’re just ignoring the fact that you woke up looking like a Roman god, huh?
I shake my head bashfully. Well, I wouldn’t go that far.
This is illegal levels of fine. I’m calling the authorities (aka myself).
That coffee is lucky. Wish I was that close to your lips.
Not Ember, so… down girl.
Do you come with a warning label, or do we just combust silently over here?
I scratch my chest with a self-deprecating shrug. Well, thanks.
Still no Ember.
I don’t care about them. It’s cute and even sweet, but I don’t care who these women are. Even if they were half as into me as they play-act behind the safety of a keyboard… they’re not her.
I should be deleting this.
Still… she hasn’t responded in hours.
Wait. Is she alright?
My heart rate spikes.
I quickly tap the messages on the app and open to the last chat we had. Twelve hours ago. There’s nothing to indicate she’s been online since then.
What the fuck?
I go to her page and see she uploaded a video just before messaging me and hasn’t been online since.
Along the bottom of the video, little messages pop up with hearts and arrows and likes while I’m scrolling the latest comments.
Don’t listen to that asshole, Mafia Queen! Delete his ass and block him!
No one should talk to my bestie like that. Let me at him, sister!
Wait, I didn’t— no.
They’re talking about someone else?
I narrow my eyes at the screen. Here I am, wearing a fucking mask in my kitchen while drinking my coffee, and someone’s disrespected my girl?
Who the fuck did that?
I scroll until I see the comment.
Then the second one.
And the third.
My gaze grows instantly hazy, my knuckles turning white when I grip my phone so hard.
Romance novels don’t make up for the fact that you’re basic as hell. Try a real hobby.
I’ll give him a real fucking hobby involving my fist and his fucking face. I click on his profile pic. Balding, middle-aged douchebag with a double chin.
My jaw drops when I see another comment. The fucking nerve?
Why hasn’t she deleted this shit?
All that fantasizing, and you still look like you’d bore a guy to death in five minutes.
Five minutes? I’d end him in one. The fucking son of a goddamn?—
Reading about mafia guys won’t make one want you. Stick to the fairytales, sweetheart.
Real mafia guys? I’ll give him real mafia guys.
Davay posmotrim, kak tebe ponravitsya, suka blyad .
Let’s see how the little bitch would like this.
My phone buzzes with text after text I ignore. Before I can stop myself, I type a response to the online douche.
Bratvabloodline
You want to take that up with a real man, princess? Cute. Disrespect her again, and I’ll remind you how much those keyboard warrior hands can hurt when they’re broken.
I stab at the screen.
Within seconds, my comment’s liked, and the comments below it start flooding in.
He’s defending her! Like a real made man! Gahhhh, Be still my beating ovaries!
“Oooooh. Real men do exist, and here’s one right here. On brand, sir. On. Brand.
I can’t do this. I shouldn’t be doing this.
I close my eyes and breathe in through my nose.
It’s just an online comment. Relax.
That son of a bitch wouldn’t have the nerve to say that to my face.
An online comment from a real guy who hurt a real girl who I actually?—
No. I don’t even know her.
I stare at my screen, willing her to reply to me, when I see another notification pop up.
It’s her.
Heartbeats thundering, I click on her video.
There she is.
My girl.
Flaming red hair hanging down in waves, those vibrant green eyes boring straight into mine. I don’t even hear what she says, and I don’t read the caption. It’s another book, but this time, I notice something in the background.
It’s a tiny white cup in the corner of the screen with the words Brookie Bites in typewriter font letters.
I screenshot the video and zoom in. It’s blurry, but I know exactly what that logo is because it belongs to the coffee shop right down the street from me.
No. There’s no way.
I click on her profile, but she doesn’t have her location on, just a general Southern California.
Good girl.
My heart races faster.
I knew I saw her before.
Where?
My phone dings and buzzes, and I practically drop it while I ignore my brothers’ messages and quickly google the coffee shop. Surely, there have to be?—
No.
There’s ONE, and it’s right here in California.
It can’t be.
She’s right here in my city.
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. I have to get it together, and now.
NOW.
With effort, I click on the screen and go to the messages from my brothers.
Thankfully, they’re talking amongst themselves and haven’t noticed my absence.
Rafail sent me specs on the third asshole I’m tracking down today. This one will be harder. The first, a middle-aged accountant with ties to multiple shell companies, folded like a cheap suit after a few broken bones. The second, a wannabe tough guy hiding behind a fake identity, couldn’t last more than a few minutes under pressure.
But this guy? He’s a slippery son of a bitch. Arnold Prokhorov, ex-Bratva turned freelance operator, knows how to disappear. Multiple aliases, offshore accounts, and a knack for slipping through cracks, even the best trackers struggle to follow. He’s been playing cat and mouse with the family for years, leaving a trail of dirty deals and dead partners.
But hey, I like the challenge.
Slipping a knife onto the counter that I’ll bring with me, I send a quick reply to Rafail: On it.
Gym first.
Prokhorov second.
Still… my mind is on Ember. The asshole who disrespected her, the fire in her eyes.
Is she feeling the pull between us? Is that why she hasn’t responded to me?
I groan when my phone dings with another notification. I have to get my ass to the gym and ground myself in sweat and hard work so I stop this bullshit already.
But when I check my phone… it’s her.
My heart tumbles in my chest. I click the message.
Dreammafiaqueen
You don’t need to fight my online battles with those self-serving comments, thank you very much. I can handle myself. I don’t answer online pricks. I leave them because the more engagement my posts get, the more follows I have, and unlike some people, I’m not just doing this for attention.
I stare at the screen and frown, my fingers flying over the screen.
Excuse me for defending your honor. The prick deserved it. If I?—
Her response comes before I finish mine.
Dreammafiaqueen
You don’t have to threaten the guy. That’s illegal and you could get kicked off here, you know.
Worth it. And it wasn’t a threat.
Dreammafiaqueen
Oh, roll my fucking eyes. As if you’re going to track down some anonymous loser and defend the honor of a woman you’ve never met over a stupid comment? Dude. Get a grip.
I narrow my eyes at the screen. I’ll get a grip alright, a grip of the fiery red hair wrapped around my fist that would get her attention loud and clear.
I think you spelled ‘thank you’ wrong.
I hit send, shutting down the conversation before she has the chance to reply. Tossing my phone onto the couch, I let the words linger in the air. She thinks I’m bluffing. She thinks this is just some harmless back-and-forth online.
I guess I can’t blame her.
She doesn’t know me. Yet .
I grab the phone, heart hammering with something sharp and hungry. I scroll fast, zeroing in on a name that’s proved useful: a fixer from my last job in L.A.
One call. One favor. Her location is mine before I hang up the phone.
Perfect. West side gym. My lip curls, adrenaline spiking as the address blinks on my screen, a live, pulsing dot. Like she’s waiting for me.
She’s right there, dangling within my reach like she was placed in my path on purpose.
I strip down, throw on workout gear, and slide my phone into my pocket.
The whole way there, I feel like I’m chasing something I’m meant to catch. Like if I don’t make it there faster, she’ll slip through my fingers.
When I walk into the gym, the scent of rubber mats and faintly metallic sweat fills my nose. A receptionist glances up, eyes widening slightly at my imposing figure. “Hello, sir! Are you here to sign up?”
I look around and don’t see her yet. Thankfully, she wouldn’t recognize me.
First, I’m not wearing a mask. I guess those masks serve a purpose. Second, I have a long-sleeved shirt on covering my tattoos. She’s heard my voice by now, but I don’t need to talk to her.
I nod, handing her my credit card without hesitation. “Yeah. Sign me up. I’ll fill out whatever forms you need later.” I lean in and flash her my most charming smile. “I’m pressed for time. Could you do that for me?”
Her cheeks redden, and she stammers out a quick, “O-of course. I’ll have the paperwork for you to sign when you leave.”
Card back in hand, I step past the desk, scanning the space until I find her. Ember . She’s at the squat rack, barbell balanced across her shoulders as she powers through reps. Her fiery hair is tied up, but stray strands cling to her damp skin.
I don’t linger. That would give me away. Instead, I head to the free weights nearby, grabbing weights and setting up a bench. From here, I can see her without making it obvious.
She finishes her set, resting for a moment and glancing around. I keep my focus on my chest press, pretending not to notice her. When her gaze passes over me, there’s no flicker of recognition. Good.
The tension in the air shifts slightly when she moves closer, now at the rowing machine in the same section. Her focus is razor-sharp, every move precise and deliberate.
She’s humble; I can tell that much. She often takes videos of herself in lounge clothes and sweats, cuddled in a blanket with a cup of tea and a book. Here? She’s all business, and I’m fucking here for it.
Her hair’s pulled back into a high ponytail, a few rebellious strands framing her face as she focuses on her next set. The flush on her cheeks isn’t makeup—it’s pure effort, earned with every lift and every bead of sweat that slides down the side of her neck.
She’s not trying to impress anyone. That’s the kicker. No fake smiles, no posturing for attention. Just pure, unfiltered focus on herself. It’s intoxicating, the way she moves with quiet confidence, like she’s in her own world. And for a moment, I let myself think how easy it would be to pull her into mine.
Her strength is magnetic, but it’s the duality that gets me. She’s lethal yet doesn’t flaunt it. Beautiful, yet completely unaware of how much she commands the room without even trying. It’s raw, it’s real, and it’s impossible to look away.
I keep my workout steady, timing my sets to hers, staying just close enough to keep her in my periphery.
She doesn’t know it yet, but I’ve already made her my target.
And I never, ever miss.