Chapter 1

RAFAIL

I stare at the cold, empty altar in front of me. I demanded simplicity, fitting for nuptials in a godless church and a loveless union.

A vase of fading white roses, their petals curling at the edges, sits on the marble altar, the cloying scent nearly nauseating. Shadows cling to the high, vaulted ceilings, cast by candles that flicker in iron sconces. Above, darkened stained glass depicts saints and martyrs in muted colors, their hollow eyes staring down through fractured light.

A faint trace of incense lingers from Sunday mass, mixing with the damp smell of old stone and earth. Here, walls seem to absorb sound, muting every breath, every heartbeat.

Every secret.

The priest my uncle summoned stands before me, his face pale in the half-light, almost skeletal in the shadows. His fingers tremble around the ancient leather-bound book he holds to his chest; its gilded edges tarnished with age. His eyes dart between me and the altar as though he expects some divine wrath to strike at any moment.

He looks as if he's about to faint. Coward. They should have appointed someone more powerful to be in charge of a place named The Cathedral of the Eternal Martyrs, nestled in the heart of my family’s hometown of Zalivka, a stone’s throw from Moscow. I can almost feel the reproachful looks from their images in stained glass windows of forest green and blood red.

"Relax, Father," I say, my voice resonating in the cavernous church. I look away. "It's not your fault she pulled this stunt. I won’t blame you." He blows out a breath as if I granted him a boon. Hell, maybe I did.

I can't help that my reputation precedes me. Sometimes I wish it didn’t. It would make shit easier.

Eh, maybe not.

I can see the whites of his eyes and don’t miss the way he's cleared his throat seventeen times in the past five minutes while I waited for my bride. She isn't coming. Not now, not ever.

The small crew of loyal friends and family who showed up to witness the ceremony sit still. No one dares to move. It looks like they’re hardly breathing. Makes sense. They don’t know if I’ll burn this church to the fucking ground or call a mob to go after her.

Even I don’t know how to react to being stood up by my future bride.

Mocked. Humiliated.

Disobeyed.

My hands clench into fists. When I find her… when I track down my bride and drag her back to me, I won’t unleash my rage on her. No. I’ll demand penance from her. Absolute surrender, body and soul, until she’s broken and bound to me.

Out of nowhere, the raucous sound of someone pressing down on an organ breaks the silence. I turn abruptly, my gaze fixed on the choir loft, where a red-faced, flustered organist shakes her head.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Kopolov. I stumbled. I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again."

I shift away from her, dismissing her with a flick of my wrist. My fingers trace the edge of my cufflinks, an old family heirloom that once belonged to my father, and his father before him, and his father before him. I barely notice Semyon until he’s already there, a quiet shadow moving into my peripheral vision.

Semyon stands just a few feet away, his lean frame blending into the dim lighting near the altar. I see the faint gleam of his glasses as he watches the room, his gaze sharp and calculating, missing nothing. He waits, a small shift of his gaze the only sign that he’s asking permission to approach. Always the strategist, his mind whirs with the next step, cold and watchful. I jerk my chin in his direction, a signal. He ascends the three steps soundlessly, his calmness a stark contrast to the silent storm brewing inside me.

His footsteps echo on the marble floors as he walks up the three steps to where I stand by the altar. Younger than I am by a few years, he resembles me but with a leaner build.

"She isn’t coming,” I confirm in a low whisper. His eyes, ever unreadable, flicker toward me, then back to the entrance. I gave explicit instructions for her father to send her alone. I didn’t want a ceremony, a big to-do. This was a transactional agreement, no more, no less.

Anissa fucking jilted me.

“Predictable,” he murmurs, a faint edge of disinterest in his tone. He’s always had a gift for neutrality I envied, a calmness that can unsettle even the most seasoned. His icy glare a promise of retribution. The Kopolov family will always stand as one.

I look away from him and stifle a curse. The air in the church is cold, musty, reminiscent of the catacombs I visited when I was a child. It was my favorite place to go, away from the hustle and bustle of family life. Away from my father’s cruel, relentless oppression and my mother's quiet dignity.

The church seemed bigger then. Hell, everything did, even my father.

I wonder what it would feel like standing before him now if he were still here.

I look at Semyon and hold his frigid glare. My jaw locks, every muscle in my body conditioned to control, but underneath the calm, rage claws at me like a beast ready to break free. No one fucks with the Kopolov family, and the fact that Anissa made a mockery of us will not go unpunished.

My jaw tightens, my gaze calculating, but underneath it all, turmoil churns. I stare at the empty pews in the back of the church and watch as my brothers give each other quick, anxious glances, uncertain of what to do next.

I’ll make her wish she hadn’t. I’ll make her wish she’d come like the obedient little girl she’ll learn to be.

I’ll make her regret the day she disobeyed me.

Why did she run?

How did she get away?

Only the sound of distant whispers and the faint rustle of clothing breaks the silence.

"If I can assist in any way…" the priest begins. One look from me, and the words die on his lips.

A low, dark, irreverent chuckle comes from the pews. I glance at my youngest brother. Where Semyon embodies cold precision, Rodion is the unpredictable wildfire none of us can fully control—to be honest, nor do I want to. It helps to have someone like him on my side. Leaning back with his arms spread along the back of the pew, that ever-present smirk on his lips and glint in his eyes promise me that one word is all it would take from me and he’d happily burn this church to the ground—and roast our enemies in the flames with glee—if I asked him. His loyalty borders on madness. He left his motorcycle parked outside and probably has more weapons on him than he has tats, and that’s fucking saying something.

I shake my head, give Rodion a meaningful look, and turn back to the priest. "That won’t be necessary, thank you."

The only people who will "assist" in what I have to do next are already here before me. Armed and ready.

My bride was here earlier. I saw her from a distance. I’m not supposed to see the bride before the ceremony, and even I'm not going to fuck with tradition. As my grandfather says, "Superstitions may be for children, but adults are old enough to follow them."

So I did my duty when I came here. I wouldn’t tempt fate and look at my bride before the ceremony. I turned away when I saw the flurry of white fabric and a gauzy veil, when I heard the click of heels on the marble floor in the foyer. There were only two strangers here—my fiancée and her bodyguard.

She was here though. And now she’s gone.

"Did anyone see her leave?" I say in a low voice to Semyon. I narrow my eyes on the doorway. "Is it possible that she was taken?"

Would somebody dare to take the bride I was about to marry? If anyone touched her, if anyone touched one hair on her fucking head?—

"She wasn’t taken," Semyon says. "We just found video surveillance from the basement. She left on her own. Paid off her guard, ripped her dress off, and ran."

Jesus.

I look to the priest. "You didn’t tell us there was video surveillance in the basement, Father."

His heavy book falls to the floor with a clatter. He stammers as he tries to make an excuse. "I didn’t know there was," he says. "That’s not what I handle here. I’m sorry. If I knew, I would’ve told you?—"

I shake my head. "Even I won’t bring down the fury of hell by harming a hair on a man of the cloth in front of an altar, Father," I say quietly. "But don’t test my patience. Or God’s."

He clamps his mouth shut, his thin lips forming a perfect O before he swallows hard. Good. A wise man knows that sometimes silence speaks much louder than words.

I turn to face my family, my voice booming. “I’m calling an end.”

My youngest sister, Zoya, jumps in her chair, though my sister Yana sits ramrod straight and doesn’t move. She holds my gaze and gives me a slight nod of encouragement. Steadfast and loyal with sharp eyes that seem to take in everything around her, Yana has an aura of calm and stillness, though underneath, she is always thinking. Resilience is her middle name.

Zoya, however, is delicate and sensitive, and I feel like a dick for making her jump. Her kind, wide eyes are fixed on me. Shit. She’s the only one who can make me feel guilty for raising my voice.

When she gives me her small, little smile, I swallow hard and nod, asking her forgiveness. She inclines her head, and her eyes grow soft—granting it.

One family, one fight—never apart.

I don’t miss the way her fingers tighten on the small matte-black purse she carries, her own family heirloom. If I don’t marry, I’ll have no choice but to marry her off since Yana’s already married. The thought fucking kills me. She’s seventeen years old and still a child in my eyes. I can’t do that to her. I fucking won’t .

It is for her—it is for all of them—that I’m even here.

Beside her, my grandfather sits, his back ramrod straight, but his eyes warm with reassurance. One gnarled hand rests atop his cane, the other on Zoya’s shoulder. His gaze tells me everything I need to know—he has total confidence that I’ll handle this.

I stare out the stained-glass window, a brutal yet somehow beautiful depiction of the beheading of St. John the Baptist, and past it to the graveyard where my life changed forever.

It was there that I witnessed the burial of my parents. There that I buried my youth. There that I became the guardian of my siblings, inherited my family’s wealth and every one of their enemies.

I made a vow that day that I would be buried alongside my parents before I would allow anyone to break our family apart.

And now Anissa has done that very thing. What would cause her to run from me, knowing my wrath was inevitable?

My knuckles whiten where I clench my fist, aching for the chance at retribution. I blow the breath out through my nose when footsteps approach me, and a heavy hand comes to my shoulder.

"We’ll find her, Rafail."

I know it’s my uncle based on the smell of his cologne before I even turn to see. His wife loves to doll him up like he’s her personal plaything. Fuck, maybe he is. “We will. No one can hide from us in this city."

I turn and face the priest, pinning him to the spot, determined to maintain civility and control. "Tell me what I owe you for this farce, Father.”

"No, no," he says magnanimously. "No charge, Mr. Kopolov. I didn’t perform the duty that you hired me for."

I shake my head. "I appreciate that, Father, but it is exceptionally bad luck not to pay for services rendered by the Church. Even debts to God have to be paid, or we know the repercussions."

When he begins to protest, I hold my hand up, palm facing him, and his words die on his lips. "And you don’t have to give me that whole thing about not performing any services yet. I won’t bring down superstition on my house." I give him a humorless smile, reach into my pocket, and take out my wallet. I peel off a thick stack of bills and hand them to him. "I’ll be making a donation to the food pantry as well."

Good luck comes from donations to the Church. I don’t tempt fate.

"Thank you, Mr. Kopolov," the priest says, his voice trembling. The bastard probably expected the roof to cave in—or maybe expected me to hit him. He doesn’t have to worry about that. I don’t touch a man of the cloth unless he proves himself to deserve it.

"Thank you, thank you. And when you find your bride," he says, unnecessarily cheerful, "let me know right away, and I will perform the ceremony you came here for. I promise," he adds with a smile.

I nod and turn abruptly.

"Everyone back to the house," I unbutton my cufflinks and rolling up my sleeves.

It’s time to get to work.

My enemies circle like predators, sniffing for blood. And as soon as word gets out that I was jilted at the altar, they’ll close in.

Our plan was to go back to my home and have dinner in the dining room. Now, instead of a celebratory dinner, we’ll plan our next move. Not an attack but a strategy.

"We'll go back to my house. The food is ready. We'll discuss our options, scan through footage, and call in our allies. I want everyone to assemble within the hour."

My uncle bows his head to me. "Wise move. I would do the same," he says as if that should somehow console me. Right.

I snap my fingers, and my brothers rise, their movements swift, ready for war.

“Let’s move.”