Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
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—