Chapter 14

“ANISSA”

Snow falls like starlight, dusting the narrow, cobblestone streets of Zalivka. The buildings rise close around us. It feels familiar yet different, like visiting a city in a foreign country that resembles home, but the locals speak another language.

This is a place that has seen centuries pass and keeps its secrets hidden within stone walls and narrow alleys. I feel both curious and cautious as I walk beside Rafail, his presence a shield. I wonder how much the Kopolovs have played the part of gatekeeper.

I note as people stare in his direction with wary respect, and a few nod to him, casting glances toward me as if to assess my role beside him. I can see it in their eyes—they know him as something of a myth here, feared yet respected, the kind of man who could command a whole town’s obedience with a mere look. Naturally. His reputation precedes him, and with each step, I feel it pressing down on me like a weight. In this world… in these streets, filled with old-world charm and traditional values he both embraces and challenges… where does he fit in?

Where do I?

Rafail keeps his hand on the small of my back, guiding me forward with a firm, possessive touch. I wish I could skip these crutches and be less conspicuous, but I’ll have to deal for now.

I try to push my doubts aside and lose myself in the sights around us, but they resurface when a frail, elderly woman catches my eye. She stares at me and then looks at Rafail, her brow furrowed in concentration. Someone talks to her, but she ignores them while she hobbles toward me. Bundled in layers, her small, frail hands tuck the scarf around her neck.

I open my mouth to speak to her, but I don’t even know what I’ll say.

Do I know you?

Do you know me?

But a large crowd of university students push past us, nearly jostling me.

“Watch it,” Rafail growls, parting them so I can walk safely. And when they’re past us, the old lady is gone.

Once again, I feel like I’m trying to reach for something I can’t quite grasp. Rafail notices my distraction and steps in close, his voice a low murmur as he nudges my chin up with a gloved hand. "Distracted, little swan?"

I smile, managing a nod, but he watches me with a hint of calculation in his gaze as if he’s measuring my reaction to everything we pass. He presses a soft kiss to my forehead and takes my hand, leading me into a nearby café, the words Zimnyaya Roza emblazoned out front.

“Anything you need?”

“Hot coffee and something buttery and sweet,” I say in a rush of words. I feel anxious and weighted down. I want some reassurance.

“This city is charming,” I tell him as he opens the door, the warm, powerful scent of strong coffee enveloping us. Orthodox churches stand beside sleek, minimalist buildings. The cityscape is dotted with old-fashioned iron street lamps and faded stone archways leading into courtyards, a slower-paced life compared to Moscow, not far from here.

“I love Zalivka,” Rafail says with feeling, eliciting a fist bump from another patron who overhears. “Here, we’ve managed to keep small businesses operating that have been owned for generations.”

“Mr. Kopolov.” A burly man with a ruddy face and red nose, wearing a flour-covered apron, wipes his hands on it and comes to see us. “Welcome. You pay nothing when you’re here, sir, you know that.” He turns his attention to me. “And is this your wife?”

Rafail’s arm comes around me with pride. “Meet my wife, Anissa. Anissa, Cecil is an old friend.”

I smile shyly as others glance our way, and I pretend to look over the menu. I can’t help but wonder how much the Kopolov family had to do with any of that. Keeping large businesses out of town is in their best interest.

They talk to each other like buddies, and it’s good to see Rafail’s stern gaze soften a little. “We have a stall in Old Square at the festival,” Cecil says. “We hope to see you there.”

Rafail nods. “I’ll do my best.”

Cecil claps him on the back. “It would do well for our biggest benefactor to come so we can thank you.”

“Precisely why I’m not sure I’ll show,” Rafail says wryly.

Cecil goes to the back, and I turn to Rafail. I’m seeing him in a whole new light.

Benefactor.

First, Yana’s biggest support, and now this.

“Tell me about the festival?” I ask him as he steps up to the counter to order. “I’ll have a hot mocha latte and one of the chocolate-covered biscuits, please.”

Cecil has a sharp word to the cashier, who promptly declines any payment.

We walk back to a table and sit. “The festival has handcrafted goods and artisanal gifts in outdoor stalls, everyone haggling over prices.

“Oooh. I’d love it. It’s gorgeous here.” Familiar yet… not.

Wordlessly, he takes my hot latte and blows on it to cool it down before he hands it to me. My heart melts a little.

“When your leg is better, I’ll take you to the river. There’s a bridge that connects the city center and all the bustle and stands to the quieter residences. When the river freezes, we ice-skate across, and in the summer, it’s in full bloom.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “My family loves it. Zoya is all about the shops, and Yana is all about the flowers.”

I swallow a bite of my food. “And Rodion likes it because there are local ladies?”

Rafail snorts. “Exactly.”

When we leave the shop, thick snowflakes still come down. They melt on my warm cheek as Rafail brushes stray snowflakes from my coat with a gentleness that surprises me. His hand lingers on my shoulder, his touch unexpectedly tender, and for a moment, I feel like we’re not two people wrapped in secrets but simply… together.

“You like it here,” he remarks, watching me with an almost bemused expression.

“Yes, I do,” I say softly, and I feel my guard slipping under his gaze. “It’s beautiful, even if a little… heavy.”

He laughs, a sound low and warm. “That’s Zalivka. Heavy with history, yes. But it’s a good place, full of loyal people. People who know how to survive.”

But as we walk, a prickle of unease crawls over me, like we’re being watched. Rafail feels it, too, his grip on my hand tightening as his gaze sweeps the street with a hardened look. He pulls me closer, his arm wrapping protectively around me.

“Stay close,” he murmurs, his tone unreadable.

I reach for Rafail’s hand. The cold air sharpens my thoughts, and without fully realizing it, I find myself saying, "You had so much to shoulder as a guardian. You still do. Not just running an empire but… your family. And Yana. It couldn’t have been easy."

Rafail’s gaze sharpens, his jaw clenching for a moment before he nods, an almost imperceptible gesture. The doctor’s questioning made it easier for us to broach this subject. "Yana has always been my sister," he says, his voice quieter than usual as if sharing something fragile. "But… if my father had known she was different—if he had known she was truly herself—he would’ve killed her.”

The way he says it, without dramatics, as a cold, unyielding fact, sends a shiver through me. I tighten my hold on his hand, sensing the fierce protectiveness beneath his composed exterior.

“And when she fell in love…” My voice trails off.

“In love with someone outside our circle? It was the best possible scenario for her. In the underground world, marriage is a strategic move. Those who don’t fit the status quo are summarily ostracized, punished, or killed. Yeah. Yana needed to stay out of that fray.”

I nod. She really did.

“I only wish I could do the same for Zoya,” he says with a sigh.

"That’s why you’re so strict, isn’t it?" I say, realizing it even as I speak. "You demand loyalty and hold everyone to these intense standards, but it’s because you’re trying to keep them safe. To give them what you think is… best."

He glances down, his expression a strange mix of pride and weariness. "I won’t let anyone destroy what I’ve built, Anissa," he murmurs. "And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep my family strong—even if that means holding them to standards no one else would dare impose. Yana, Rodion, Semyon, even Zoya… they don’t understand it, not always. But I’d die for them."

A softness emerges behind his hardened gaze, something almost vulnerable, like he’s peeling back a layer of armor just for me.

I hesitate before I ask, "Did Yana understand? Does she know how much you risked to protect her?"

A ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Yana always knew. She’s more perceptive than all of them put together." He pauses, watching me carefully. "I do push her harder than the others, yes. I demand her loyalty, her strength—but I want her to know that I see her. That I love her, not in spite of who she is, but because of it."

"Does she know that?"

His gaze shifts to the snowy street, contemplative. "Maybe. She’s quiet, like she’s always taking everything in. But she understands. More than anyone, Yana knows how much I care for this family, for every one of them."

I nod, feeling my heart tighten, admiring the fierce loyalty in him, seeing now that every hard edge in Rafail isn’t just about power or control—it’s about survival, about a love so intense he doesn’t know how else to express it.

We walk in silence for a few steps before I whisper, "You’re a good brother, Rafail. A good man, even if you don’t see it."

A flicker of something raw crosses his face, but he only nods, his hand firm and steady in mine. And for the first time, I see a hint of the peace he’s rarely allowed himself to feel.

As we approach the car, a rush of relief settles over me, but so do the questions that keep surfacing in my mind. I cast him a sidelong glance, my voice tentative. “Rafail… what if… what if I had another name before I met you? Another life?”

He pauses, looking at me with something between surprise and suspicion. But before he can answer, his phone rings, shattering the moment. His face goes dark as he listens, and I catch only fragments of the conversation before he hangs up.

“Romanovs… cartel… missing sister…”

The words chill me. They strike something deep, something that pulses with familiarity, even as it leaves me more lost than ever.

“Romanovs?” I whisper, my voice barely audible, but Rafail’s grip on me tightens as he meets my gaze, his eyes cold, guarded. "We need to move now ," Rafail says, taking my hand.

"What happened?" I ask, hobbling toward the car on my crutches, but he has no patience for my slowness. He sweeps me up off my feet and holds me with one arm against his chest while he takes my crutches in his meaty hand.

"A rival group is moving against us. I feared this—that once word got out I was married and we left the house, we’d have some pushback. We have no fucking time to waste. I need to move. We need to secure you and everybody else at the house."

My heart pounds. Is this the new life that I lead? Leaping from question to question without ever having answers? Moving from one dangerous scenario to the next?

My leg throbs under the weight of the cast as he speeds back home in silence.

“We had a driver on the way here.”

“We did. I dismissed him. We need to drive fast, and that’s on me.”

I nod silently, gripping the door until my knuckles turn white. He drives at a breakneck pace, breathtakingly precise, pressing the gas without a hint of hesitation. Each curve is taken with terrifying speed, his control effortless, as if he knows exactly how far he can push us. The sharp turns press me into my seat with the force of a roller coaster. It’s not just the speed that astounds me—it’s the sheer certainty in his every move as though the rules don’t apply to him.

It's exhilarating yet terrifying. My mind races as the car’s wheels spin, and we hurtle toward home.

Why is he still wholly unfamiliar to me? Even if he was someone who I was running from, I should have some recollection of him… Shouldn't I?

The doctor’s words linger in my mind.

There’s no promise of a full recovery.

Your memories are fractured.

Stress, trauma, trying too hard… all can complicate your recovery.

The sound of booming gunfire shatters my thoughts. Instinctively, Rafail grabs for me and shoves me to the floor while keeping effortless control of the car. I scream, and my leg slams against my cast.

An explosion rips through the air just behind us, and Rafail turns the wheel so hard I’m pressed to the ground with the weight of gravity. My heart thunders in my chest, adrenaline flooding me as the sound of bullets ping off the car.

"Stay down!” Rafail barks at me, his voice sharp and controlled. Panic rises in my chest. I’m shaking. I watch as he continues to effortlessly guide us to a stop. My mind reels.

We’re being shot at, and instead of outrunning them, he’s stopping ? I watch in breathless silence as he pushes my head down with one hand and opens the glove compartment. It clicks shut. I stare up at him holding a huge black handgun, its cannon-like barrel glinting in the overhead light. My mind snaps to attention because I know exactly what it is—a Desert Eagle . I’ve held one before, its recoil so strong as to make it almost unusable except to the strongest and most capable of shooters. The way he casually wields it makes it look like a child’s plaything in his hand, his finger already on the trigger as his dark eyes narrow with cold decision, the promise of violence spiraling out of him like an uncontrollable wave of hatred and death.

I cling to his arm and watch him scan our surroundings.

Why is this… vaguely familiar to me? Why do I feel this has happened before? A memory flashes through my mind, familiar faces I can’t place, and a name…

Polina…

My name.

It was my name from a different place in time. I feel as if I've been rebirthed into a second life, as if I've been reincarnated into who I am now.

Voices sound all around us, but my head is spinning as I try to focus.

“ Stay down ,” he growls. His body presses against mine, keeping me behind him. One hand is flat on my chest, holding me in place before he goes back to gripping his gun with deadly precision.

Tires screech toward us. My heart stutters, and he throws me his phone. It’s on speakerphone, Semyon’s name at the top. “They’re coming in at three o’clock,” he yells. “ Stop them .”

A deafening boom like a cannon sounds ahead of us. Someone screams with maniacal glee, and Rafail shakes his head, cursing. Rodion .

A car races toward us at breakneck speed, tires squealing on pavement . Rafail leaps to his feet, heavy boots planted as he stands facing the oncoming car head-on, gun blazing. Fire spits from his weapon. Windows shatter. A tire explodes. I’m frozen in place, my heart racing, when it dawns on me with crystal clarity: they're going to hit us. In that moment—with the vehicle hurtling toward us and the knowledge that I'm going to be hit—a memory flashes in front of me.

I'm running. Running away from a nameless captor who's going to hurt me, running away from… Rafail? I can see the dark intensity of his gaze, even feel the heat of his fingers on me, but… he’s a stranger to me. He isn’t my husband.

The memory of the accident comes back with brutal clarity. All of it. The screech of tires. The impact that shook my bones and rattled me into unconsciousness. His bellow of rage from behind me. Vague voices over me.

Another deafening boom rattles the ground beneath me. Then another. The car in front of us explodes as Rafail hits the ground and covers me.

“That’s it, Rodion,” Rafail says with dark approval. “Atta boy.”

Metal and glass fly over us. In an instant, Rafail presses me beneath him, shielding me with his body.

Bloodcurdling screams.

Boom.

Then… nothing.

Nothing but eerie silence.

I close my eyes, assaulted by memory after memory.

My mother.

My home.

I am Russian, and I…

It’s on the cusp of my consciousness, so close I cry out loud and reach for the air in front of me just before I collapse against Rafail, and my world fades to emptiness.