Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Rage simmers in my veins. First, at my brother for leaving us in this position to begin with. Next, at Semyon, who let my brother accumulate this staggering amount of debt.
I haven’t talked to Semyon in years.
Years.
But now… I can find him. I have to find him. I shouldn’t—god knows I shouldn’t—but Eli’s phone burns in my hand like a loaded gun. If I don’t do something, we’ll lose what little we have left. The bakery, the apartment, Stefan’s future—gone. All gone.
I promised my mother I would protect Stefan no matter the cost. It was my last promise to her before she died.
I take a shaky breath and type the words that seal my fate. I lift my brother’s phone, my fingers trembling as I type out a message to Semyon.
Where are you?
Chapter 3
ANYA
When I was little, my mother used to call me her little firefly. Because I was so tiny, I practically flew about the house or yard, skipping rocks by the creek or climbing one of the huge maples that overlooked our backyard. But if I got angry—usually at my older brother or the injustice of a situation—my temper would flare.
“Be careful, my little firefly,” she’d say after another one of my tantrums, running her hand down the back of my head over my hair. “One day, that temper might get you in trouble. And I won’t always be here to save you.”
Her voice still echoes in my mind, each word a ghostly reproach as I tug her threadbare coat tighter around my shoulders and brave the biting wind.
She’s gone, and I failed her.
It’s so frigid I feel like my nostrils are sealed together when I breathe; any bit of exposed skin aches when the wind touches it. But we haven’t had a car in years, and I don’t have the money to hire a ride. The wind knifes through me, stealing the air from my lungs, but it can’t compete with the storm in my chest.
Every step toward the pub is a battle—against the cold, against the pain in my legs, against the fury that tears me apart.
Each frozen breath is a vow: I’ll make him listen.
Maybe the mile-long walk to the pub will cool my raging temper.
His response was immediate.
Iron Birch. Come now and come alone.
Oh, I’ll come alone alright. Who else will I bring, me and my battery of alliances and besties? Ever since I had to quit college and work in my family’s business, my time with friends has dwindled to nearly nothing. Ophelia’s the only one left. And while I know she’d pick up if I called her at any time of day, I also know she’ll do her best to talk me out of what I’m about to do.
Rage and desperation are powerful fuel.
I have to confront him.
“Hey, gorgeous. Need a ride?” I shiver and keep my head down, ignoring a man standing in a doorway. I’m so desperate for warmth that I almost entertain the thought but manage to keep some semblance of self-respect.
I look at the number on the building to my left. Only fifty more to go.
“Hey,” he calls after me but doesn’t follow. I pick up my pace.
By the time I get to the Iron Birch, I’m shaking, disheveled, and angrier than before I left. How dare he and his stupid family come after mine? After all he did to us?
How dare he?
I shove open the bar door. It swings on its hinges, the overhead bell jingling. Chatter dies down, but when the people inside see it’s just me, it quickly picks up again. I’m short and slight and hardly someone any of them would be concerned with. But I don’t care. My mother always said good things come in small packages, and Semyon Kopolov is about to meet his match.
I hate him.
I hate him for ruining my family. I hate him for dragging my brother into the depravity of his world, for ignoring my mother’s pleas to keep my brother out of it. I hate him for pulling the trigger that caused my mother’s death.
And I hate him now for putting my family in this position.
So I march straight to the bartender, who eyes me with mild curiosity. A man in his early fifties with short, salt-and-pepper hair, he holds a beer mug in his hand as he dries it. “May I help you?”
I lean in, bracing myself on the shiny lacquered bar top. “The Kopolov family is expecting me.”
His bright blue eyes widen as he processes my request. Leaning in closer to me, his voice lowers to a whisper, and he gestures for me to come closer. “Are you sure about that? If you’re in trouble… if you need help…”
I lick my lips and swallow, completing the sentence. “There would be nothing you’d be able to do about it. Would there?”