Chapter 5
ANYA
I barely process how I get home. I don’t really know Semyon’s brother Rodion. He was young when his parents died, and I always got the impression Rafail kept him close to home. Semyon was the only one in their family who came to our house.
I know Rodion got married to a woman from the States. But everyone knows when a man of the Kopolov Bratva marries.
I suspect I might like Rodion if I talked with him—he seems the softer of the three brothers, though I should know by now that my first impressions of people suck.
But I’m numb right now. I don’t return his chatter and don’t answer his questions, and eventually, he stops talking to me. He’s a big guy, as tall as Semyon but bulkier, so no one even thinks about bothering us on the way back. When we get to my place, his brows lift in surprise before he masks his expression .
I know. It’s a total shithole and probably looks even worse to a wealthy, powerful man like him.
“You need… help packing or something?” he asks, his expression almost boyish, as if he doesn’t know what to do in the presence of a distraught woman.
I catch the gleaming glint of gold on his finger and flash him a glare. “I haven’t agreed to marry your brother.”
This time, he doesn’t bother to hide his reaction. “It would be a grave mistake not to, Anya.”
“That’s what you think.”
He shakes his head. “You don’t understand. Semyon is cold, I know. Sometimes, I wonder if he’s really human. He doesn’t… feel things the way others do. But if you married him, he would make sure you had what you needed. I know he would.”
I turn away from him to mask the raw emotion in my chest. “What do you or your brother know about what I need?”
He sighs. “You’d be dumb as fuck not to take him up on this offer.”
Of course I’m going to take him up on his offer. Do I have a real choice? I just don’t want to give him the satisfaction of caving so quickly when I haven’t even had a chance to process this myself.
I grit my teeth, slide the key into the wobbly lock that Rodion side-eyes without bothering to pretend he isn’t, and push it open. “Thanks for walking me home and the unsolicited advice,” I say with a forced smile before I shut the door in his face, trying to ignore how much he looks like his damn brother. A mean trick from the universe, making monsters so beautiful.
Argh!
I press my forehead to the cool door to quell the trembling. It doesn’t work. I clench my hands into fists to stop the tears that will come now that I’m alone. It doesn’t help. I sink to the floor in a heap and give way to sobs. They rack my body, my shoulders shaking, deep, heavy tears that feel as if they’re torn straight from my heartstrings. I give in to all the fears and anger I’ve been holding onto for so long.
I’m furious at my father for being a weak asshole who cares more about his next bottle of liquor than he does his own children. I hate my brother for being no better than my father, for betraying his family and leaving us to fend for ourselves when he could’ve done so much better.
He used to be my best friend.
Gregarious and charming, he could talk a candlestick into falling in love with him. I swear Semyon and I are the only ones who see him for who he’s become.
I’m so angry at Semyon for using my family’s misfortune for his own personal gain, for refusing to back down and compromise. For pushing me to the brink of breaking.
A fresh sob escapes me. I wipe a hand across my snotty nose as hot tears plop onto the floor because I hate myself for the next person my anger settles on: my mother. I’m angry at her for dying and leaving me to bear the burden of this alone.
I cry until the well of hurt, anger, and fear inside me begins to dissipate. Until my eyes are swollen and scratchy, my head feels two times its normal size and aches, and I’m too stuffy to breathe out of my nose. It’s tolerable when weeping leaves you feeling relieved as if a pressure’s been lifted. But when you finish a good cry and still feel as desolate as before you began… it isn’t a good cry at all.
I pull myself to my feet and look around me. My father’s knocked out in his chair, a line of drool hanging from his lips. I’m glad. The only thing worse than losing my shit is losing my shit and knowing he doesn’t care.
The dishes I left are still piled in the sink. The light under Stefan’s door is out.
I close my eyes, a lump forming in my throat, and reach for my phone. With trembling fingers, I dial Ophelia. It goes to voicemail.
I put my phone down. I’ve never felt so alone in my life. I push to my feet when the phone begins to buzz. I reach for it, hope rising in my chest, and stifle a sob when I see Ophelia’s name.
I answer immediately. “Are you alright? What’s wrong?” she asks, her voice still tinged with that lisp she’s tried to fix for years.
I let out a sob. “ No. ” I tell her everything. Like the good friend that she is, she gasps, screams, curses, and moans at all the right parts, and when I’m finished, she blows out a shaky breath.
“Oh my god. Anya. What are you going to do?”
“Do I have a choice?” I ask, sniffling through a fresh wave of tears. “But I can’t leave Stefan here.”
Ophelia is quiet for a moment before her voice picks up, filled with her usual misplaced optimism. Normally, I like it, but tonight…
“Listen, maybe you don’t have to actually marry him. Maybe… stall. Tell him you’ll think about it, and then maybe we can figure something out. You can—get a lawyer! Or… or maybe you can take Stefan, leave your useless father, and run. Change your names, move to another country. Canada? No one would look for you in Canada. It’s so cold.”
I laugh through my tears, but it sounds bitter and desperate. “Girl, I don’t even have enough money for bus fare, never mind fake passports and whatever I’d need. And how long could I hide from them? He’d find me before I even left the city.”
She didn’t know Semyon like I did. She doesn’t know how laser-focused he was when he wanted something, how determined he was when he set his eyes on a target.
I do.
“I can… I can loan you some money. I’ve got a little stashed away, I could?—”
“Babe. I love you,” I say, swallowing a fresh sob. “I love you so much. But no. Running isn’t an option.”
I can’t tell her that leaving the bakery my mother started would break me. I couldn’t do that to her. I was there the day she opened her doors. I was the one who sat on the kitchen counter, swinging my feet, as she taught me how to proof bread, showed me the perfect color of creamed butter, and when she taught me the intricacies of making the perfect loaf of sourdough.
It would feel like burying my mother all over again.
“What if you… What if you pretend to be really sick? Maybe under that stern exterior, the man actually has a heart.” In my mind’s eye, I see his cold, expressionless eyes.
She has no idea.
“Maybe if he knows you’re like… dying of cancer or something, he’ll show some mercy. You could fake it?”
“Ophelia,” I say patiently. “He’s one of the most powerful men in Russia. You know that.”
“Which is why I think you’re ballsy as fuck ,” she interrupts.
Ugh, where did ballsy get me though?
I finish, “…and he would have access to doctors who would make it very clear I’m not on my deathbed. Then what?”
She sighs. “Right. God.”
Her voice trails off. It’s rare she’s at a loss for words.
“How long did he give you?”
I look at the broken clock on the kitchen stove that’s missing half a digit and squint.
“I have twenty-three hours left.”
I know Semyon well enough to know he meant that literally.
Her silence stretches for long moments before she finally whispers, “Anya, all I can tell you is… I’ll take care of Stefan. I won’t let your father neglect him.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. Stefan can hold his own with my father; I know that much, as he’s had enough hours without me here to fend for himself. And while my father is a selfish, useless asshole, he doesn’t hurt him.
“Thanks,” I whisper. The word hangs in the air between us. “I have to go.”
Maybe I can get some sleep, and when I wake up, the universe will magically present me with the answers to my troubles.
Maybe not.
I can’t run. I know it’s futile. Semyon’s reach is too far, his control too absolute.
That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.
I go to bed, burying my childhood dreams of actual love. Of freedom. Of hope.
I only have a few hours before I have to wake and go to the bakery.
In my dreams, I nearly drown in the little creek by my house. I’m screaming for someone to help me.
No one does.
I wake, gasping for air, to the faint trickle of morning light filtering in through my window.
My head pounds with a headache. My stomach burns with nausea .
I ease myself with the knowledge that my biggest fear—not having a caretaker for Stefan—will be eased with Ophelia’s help.
“I’ll marry him,” I mutter to the empty room. I shake my head and make a vow. “But I’ll have conditions. And he’s going to live to regret agreeing to this.”