Page 47 of Unrequited

When something came up—if we got into trouble at school, or if one of us hit a milestone we weren't ready to talk about—he’d say it then, the four words we all dreaded.

Let’s take a walk.

And we would. Through the backyard, down the trail by the river, even in the dead of winter. Rafail was tough as nails, never wavered, never flinched. He was a stern disciplinarian, the kind who could make you shiver with just a look. No one got away with anything. But now that we're older, none of us blame him for that. Not anymore.

He held our family together when it could’ve shattered. And honestly? It's because of him that we're still standing, that we know how to have each other's backs, that we understand the value of loyalty and blood. It's Rafail who taught us how to protect what's ours, to defend what's precious.

But taking a walk always meant one thing: trouble. He'd caught on.

I’m surprised it took this long, really.

God.He knows about Seamus. He knows I’ve been sneaking away. My half-hearted excuses and careful lies have finally caught up with me. Bitten me hard. So I swallow and wipe my hands on the front of my apron, suddenly hyperaware of everything.

I shove that thought away, scrap it. No time for sentiment.

“Sure,” I tell him, setting the stew to a low simmer and sneaking a glance at the rising bread on the counter. It still needs another thirty minutes before it’s ready to bake. That gives me time. Not much, but maybe enough. Maybe.

He doesn't meet my eyes. A shadow drifts across his features, unreadable.

Well, this is new.

My heart drums against my ribcage. “What’s wrong?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Thirty minutes should be plenty,” he says simply, then turns and walks out the door.

I check my phone, nerves twitching beneath my skin. No messages. Nothing from Aria, Mia, or anyone else who might have known what’s happened.

I don’t know how much I trust Aria, anyway. Did she rat me out? What would I do if she did?

But somehow, miraculously, Rafail doesn’t ask. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t press. Not yet.

Instead, he heads down the gravel path that winds through the rose bushes, his steps slow and deliberate. It’s late spring just outside of Moscow.

The air still holds a chill, the scent of thawed earth and everything, giving me hope. The streetlamp casts golden halos through the mist following rain.

The pussy willows droop slightly, casting long shadows that slither across the path. It smells like the sun’s coming, like life waking up again after too long in sleep. I’ve always loved this time of year. The green buds on the trees, the slow retreat of winter, the way summer promises longer days and fewer obligations. It always made me feel free.

But I don’t feel that anymore. I haven’t in a while.

Not since Seamus left.

Still, I shove the thought out of my mind the second we fall into step, side by side. Even thinking of him feels dangerous. Feels like invoking something I’m not ready to face.

Rafail exhales sharply. His breath fogs in the evening air. He’s got a little gray at his temples now, something he didn’t have when he first became head of the family. The years have marked him, but they’ve also hardened him. Refined him. We’re more powerful now. Financially stable. Feared, respected. His name carries weight across every organized crime ring from Europe to beyond.

But it wasn’t always that way. We’ve survived betrayal, infighting, chaos.

“I knew we’d have to have this conversation eventually,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. For a moment, he looks almost boyish.

“What conversation, Rafail?” My voice is wary, tight.

“You knew, didn’t you, Zoya? That eventually I’d have to marry you off.”

Oh god.That’swhy he’s here?

I nod. The lump in my chest rises, thick and sharp. Six months ago, I would’ve broken down. I would’ve cried, screamed. Raged. Because back then, I still believed I might get to choose. Still hoped I might get married for love.

But now? Now it just feels like the next inevitable season of my life.