Page 20 of Unleashed

But no, his name is unfamiliar.

I shake my head. Nothing.

"Myownname doesn't mean anything when you say it," I tell him. "I'd like to talk to a doctor. I need to know when my memory will come back."

"Your father is involved in various aspects of organized crime," he continues quietly. "And I am the head of the Kopolov Moscow branch. My father died young, like his father before him. A curse, some say, though I don’t believe in superstition the way most here do. But the Kopolov name carries with it a legacy.” His voice sharpens. “One I intend to protect.”

I swallow and nod.

“We’re Bratva, Anissa.”

I blink.

Bratva.Familiarity rings with fear and awe. I know the Bratva. Russian organized crime. Lethal. Powerful.

Familiar.

“Eleven years ago, my parents were killed. As the eldest, I became the legal guardian of my family andpakhan.”

Wait.Legal guardian of his family?

“Oh. Oh, wow. How many of you are there?”

His jaw firms. “I have two brothers and two sisters under my care. They came into my care as minors. My brothers work but sometimes stay here as well.”

"I see. So you're the legal guardian of Zoya, that sweet girl I met earlier?"

He nods. "And a few other not-so-sweet siblings you'll meet eventually."

Alright then.

My mind wanders. It's beautiful, in a strange way, this concept that maybe it's just the two of us. I can still hear him, though, and it would be foolish to ignore what he's saying.

"Say that again." I wonder what his expectations are. "How long have you been your siblings' guardian? Eleven years?”

“Yes.”

Yikes. I always thought it was kind of sweet, even poignant, when a brother stepped up to guard his siblings in the role of father figure. Maybe my primal instincts tell me he’d do well as a father to my own children. Maybe it shows he’s dependable and trustworthy.

But I don’t know anything about him, not really. Perhaps he's incredibly permissive, letting them get away with murder. I give him a second look. No, that definitely wouldn't be his downfall. He’s probably the opposite—overbearing and authoritarian.

God. Maybe I should just wait and see and not make any rash judgments. I should probably stop trying to figure it all out right this minute.

"I have an uncle and aunt who live nearby," he says, "but they don't live here. I have staff as well. You did, too, Anissa."

That triggers a faint memory. I can't give him names or places, but I remember someone cooking in the kitchen, mopping the floors, folding laundry.

"Mmm. Yes. So what will you expect ofme?" I ask, suddenly unsure. Am I supposed to be cooking? Cleaning? Taking care of the younger ones? Would that be strange? No, they're probably old enough not to need anyone like a mother.

"I’ve told you," he says, his voice soft but firm. "You’re expected to do what you're told."

Right. I blow out a breath, unimpressed with the platitude or threat. "For someone who's trying to improve his first impression on me, you could do a lot better, you know." I roll my eyes. "I just meant, do you expect me to cook? Clean? Things like that. Do I even know what I'm doing in the kitchen?"

"If you want to." He shrugs like it's no big deal. "Of course, for now, you're going to have to get better. Heal from your injuries. And you haven’t been in the kitchen yet, so time will tell.” He raises a brow to underscore his words. “Afteryour leg is better.”

Great. I’m handicapped in more ways than one. I frown. "What exactly was my prognosis?"

"You’ll have the cast for a minimum of eight weeks. I’m watching you for signs of a concussion. You have no internal bleeding or bleeding on your brain, but I'm insisting you get a second scan in two days. You have lacerations on your back and arms and a sprained elbow."

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