Chapter 6

RAFAIL

I walk the halls outside the guest room where I have my bride imprisoned.

Zoya thanked me for allowing her to take care of her, so maybe it was the right choice. When we brought her home, she begged me. My youngest sister gets away with everything. I can't help it. She was just a child when our parents died, and she's always looked to me for guidance. She's the only innocent one in our family.

Unlike the others, Zoya was too young to remember our parents' deaths and grew up insulated from the darker dealings of our family life. She's sweet, na?ve, shielded from the underworld, and sometimes I wonder if she knows more than she lets on. Zoya has a heart and is deeply empathetic—somebody needs to be.

My brothers tell me that I baby her, that I hold them to standards I don't hold her or my sister Yana to. Maybe they're right. Perhaps I do, and I am protective of her. So when she asked me to take care of my bride, I let her. Somebody needs to keep a thread of humanity around here. Fuck knows I'm not the one who will. I think they’re particularly angry that I’m softer on Yana, but I have good reason. She’s fought an uphill battle most her life, and for her, more so than the rest of us, my father’s demise was at least in part a stroke of luck.

My phone buzzes with a text. I open it

Zoya

Rafail, she really doesn’t know who she is. What do I do?

She doesn’t know who she is? What?

I text her back.

"Wait. I want to test that theory."

She doesn’t respond. She doesn’t know who she is? I need to get outside and get some fresh air. This is the first time I’ve left her bedside since I brought her home last night. I needed to update my brothers.

I look out the large windows near the foyer. Each floor has a balcony that overlooks the lush green grass below. I like to be on a balcony when I need to think, when I need to plan. The secluded cottage, the family estate passed onto me and left in my care, is located on the outskirts of Moscow in Zalivka, far enough from the public eye to give us privacy and security but close enough to the city for me to manage everything. It’s surrounded by acres of private land and forests—a natural barrier that gives it a fortress-like atmosphere. And I love it.

I’ve done what I could to make this place a fortress, a stronghold, but still a family home despite the imposing walls, thick, wrought-iron gates, and maze-like hallways.

I push open the balcony door to find my grandfather sitting with Vadim—Vadka, for short. My best friend and most loyal lieutenant.

Rugged and solidly built, with a perpetual five o'clock shadow, Vadka is tough but has a friendly smile when he's around people he trusts. Like my grandfather. Like me.

Next to Vadka, my grandfather is small and frail, with warm eyes and a soft voice. He walks with a cane, hunched over, but still maintains an air of dignity. My mother's father, he’s the only living grandparent we have left. These two are my most trusted advisors, and while I rarely ask for advice, there’s a time and a place.

"My son," my grandfather says in his shaky, rasping voice. "You look as if you’ve seen a ghost."

Vadka sits back in his chair and takes a swig from a bottle. "I don’t know if I’d describe him that way. Looks like he’s angry." He tips his head to the side. "Somebody key your car again, boss?"

He’s the only one I let get away with bullshit like this. "Got another one?" I ask him. Of course he does. He takes the cold drink from the ground beside him, pops the top off, and hands it to me.

I gulp half of it before I speak. I swallow and sigh, looking over the balcony. "She has no memory of who she is."

"No shit," Vadka says, his eyes wide. My grandfather doesn’t respond at first, though his bushy gray eyebrows knit together.

"Are you positive about that?" he says quietly.

"That’s what Zoya tells me. I have to test it."

My grandfather nods thoughtfully, stroking the gray on his chin. "You definitely do. What does she gain from pretending she doesn’t know who she is?"

"Everything," I snap.

He holds up a hand before I continue. "Easy, son. Think. What does she gain if she’s your bride? Your wrath. Her lack of freedom. Punishment."

I talk over him. "Yes. Of course. She earned that by putting our entire family at risk." He shakes his head and raises a palm.

"You don’t need to explain to me what’s at stake or why you’re angry." He doesn’t approve of our criminal empire but understands that his grandchildren were thrust into a life we couldn’t escape. He’s the calming presence in our family, offering wisdom in a world filled with brutality.

"If she doesn’t know who she is, does she escape any of that?"

I shake my head. "No."

"Then it stands to reason that she has nothing to gain by lying, correct?"

I swallow hard. "Correct."

"But think of what you gain if she doesn’t remember who she is."

I think, turning over the possibilities in my mind as if holding jewels in my palm, each facet reflecting sunlight. "A new story.”

Grandfather smiles. He may despise organized crime and eschew the Bratva, but he fits right in.

My thoughts race.

“If she doesn’t know who she is,” I continue, “maybe she never jilted me. We’re already married. Her family doesn’t know she escaped; nobody does. I spread the news of a secret ceremony so news gets out.

“You’ll make her wear your ring,” Vadka supplies. "The one she lost in the accident.” He chuckles. "I do love how your wicked mind works."

Grandfather watches us both with interest. "Of course, everyone needs to be in on this. Are you confident that deception is the way to continue?"

I face him, my temper rearing its ugly head. "She stood me up. She put everything I’ve worked for at risk. I’m doing her a favor if we skip straight to wedlock, and she’s now married to me."

My grandfather nods thoughtfully, his fingertips pressed together. "Fair enough. And what if her memory comes back?"

"By then, it will be too late.” I scowl. “She’ll belong to me. ”

Grandfather continues nodding, his bushy white brows knit. "We need details about how her memory might work."

Even while I'm consumed by uncertainty, I have to maintain control. So I call Dr. Zuta, a trusted associate. The noonday sun is high on the horizon when he finally answers. My voice is low but forceful, the weight of my concern bearing down on me. I need to know if her memory loss is genuine. I need to discern whether or not she’s lying.

"Mr. Kopolov, to what do I owe this pleasure?" the doctor asks.

I explain quickly what happened. "So you need to determine if you're dealing with amnesia," the doctor summarizes. "In this case, if she truly has suffered trauma, it's not uncommon for memories to become fragmented or temporarily inaccessible. She may be confused or have gaps in memory, and there’s no real way to test if she is lying. What you'll have to do is watch for inconsistencies. But be careful, do not push too hard, or you could cause further damage."

My jaw tightens. I am not someone who suffers uncertainty, and I despise the ambiguity of the doctor’s words. My mind flashes back to Anissa—those fragile, hauntingly familiar eyes. Or were her eyes perhaps too wide? Is there anything I can trust about her?

"And if she is lying?" I ask, my hand clenched into a fist, my voice colder now. I'm trying to hide the desperation in my words. I’ve gone from chasing down the bride who stood me up to having one who may be deceiving me.

"There’s no real medical way to prove it," the doctor replies. "But as her memories return—and they very well may—there might be behavioral shifts. Maybe she'll react to you differently. Just treat her carefully for now. Her mind needs time to heal."

I stifle a growl, holding my anger back with difficulty. This might not be the chance I’d hoped for. "Give me examples of inconsistencies to watch out for."

"Names, relationships," he says. "See if she remembers if she has any brothers or sisters. You might watch how she behaves in familiar surroundings.”

I don’t know much about her. That will have to change.

"In severe cases of amnesia, she would struggle with basic daily tasks, like finding her way around a kitchen. But if she navigates her area easily, she might be remembering more than she lets on. Ask her about her favorite food, her opinions on things. See if her memory is intact."

Right.

"She may have some emotional responses, involuntary habits, muscle memory—things like that. The sense of smell can be powerful. Just keep in mind a triggered memory doesn’t necessarily indicate she’s lying."

I see. My mind reels with possibilities, eager to use this knowledge to further tighten my control over my… bride. "Thank you for your time."

I send a text to my entire family and everyone in my trusted circle.

Anissa has no memory of who she is. From this moment on, you all will treat her as my wife. That is what she is now. I want it announced wide, loud and clear that my wife and I have taken our vows. Let her family know. Let everyone know. Anissa is mine.

My decision made, I head back to Zoya and Anissa.

Rodion texts back.

Got it. Do you love her in this scenario?

I scowl at the screen and shake my head. Will he ever learn?

Of course not.