Page 37 of Carved in Ruin

A pause. Silence, then a guttural roar.

“They offered you three times what I pay? What do they want, gold-plated Kalashnikovs? ”

Another crash. A chair this time, judging by the splintering sound.

“I don’t give a damn if the shipment was conditional. You move that stock, and you move it to me! I don’t care about your buyer’s ‘terms.’ You think I won’t find out who’s behind this? I’ll carve their name into your goddamn tombstone!”

I press my hands over my ears, but it doesn’t help. His voice cuts through the wood and stone.

“You sell to that bastard, and you’re dead. Do you understand? I’ll make sure you choke on the money they promised you!”

The call ends with a loud beep, followed by the sound of something heavy, probably his desk, being upended.

He’s unraveling, and we’re all going down with him.

I know more about other mafias than my own. My father made sure of that. Not out of love or concern, but because he didn’t trust us not to betray him. It wasn’t for safety like I’d once tried to convince myself. It was control. Isolation. He kept us in the dark while parading himself as untouchable.

I feel so disconnected from Serbian culture it’s almost embarrassing. I barely know a handful of words in the language, and even those feel foreign on my tongue. My father never encouraged me to learn, never told me stories about his home or what it was like growing up there. It was like that part of him didn’t exist, or maybe he just didn’t want it to exist for me.

I don’t know a single member of the family I was born into. Not their faces, their names, or their alliances. But I know the others. The Bulgarians, the Triads, even whispers of the Yakuza. I know their structures, their leaders, and their rules. And I know this: my father is blind.

No—blind isn’t the word. He’s in denial. Because even if he knows it is Rafael behind all this, what can he do? Challenge him? Retaliate? He might as well have thanked Rafael for sparing his life.

No one denies or challenges the Phakan. Not if they value their lives, their power, or their pride.

“Respond, you bastards!” he yells, his voice cracking as the desperation bleeds through. It’s the fifth time he’s called the Turks, and still, no one responds. And then comes more breaking, more destruction, like he can smash his way out of the mess he’s sinking into.

This is bad. Really bad. I’m not stupid. I know how this works. The way I eat, the clothes I wear, the roof over my head—it’s all blood money. It’s not clean, not moral, but it’s the only life I’ve ever known. If the Turks have cut him off, just like the Bulgarians, then that life is on borrowed time. Father’s savings will dwindle into nothing soon—he was too cocky, too sure of himself, never imagining it could all fall apart like this. So, he never took any precautions in case his world shattered.

And the hit won’t just be his. It’s mine too. My father never let me work, never taught me how to stand on my own two feet. He said it was for my protection, that I didn’t need to worry about things like that. And I believed him. God, I was so fucking compliant. I didn’t fight him. I didn’t resist. I let him clip my wings and stayed in the cage like a dutiful little bird.

But now, the cage is crumbling around us, and I can’t fly.

The phone buzzes in my hand, startling me. For a moment, I think about ignoring it, nothing good comes from calls these days. But when I glance at the screen, my breath hitches.

Elliot.

The professor. Of all the people who could be calling me, I didn’t expect him. My father’s tirade is still at its peak and I instinctively move to the window. The frame groans as I pushit open, leaning out far enough to let the cold air numb my skin. Maybe this way, he won’t hear what’s happening in the background.

I clear my throat and answer. “Hello?”

“Ah, hello!” His voice is warm. “This is Elliot. From the conference?”

“Yes, I remember,” I say quickly. “How are you?”

“I’m well, thank you. How areyoudoing?”

I hesitate. How does one even begin to explain the mess behind me? “I’m… fine,” I say, and it sounds more convincing than I thought it would.

There’s a pause on the line, just long enough to make me wonder if he heard the lie. Then his voice comes through again, calm and casual. “Good. I’m glad. Listen, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Okay…” I say cautiously, leaning further out the window.

“I have a proposition for you.”

“What kind of proposition, Professor?”

“Elliot,” he corrects gently. “And It’s something I think you’ll love to hear,” he continues. “But it’s better discussed in person. Would you mind meeting me?”

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