Page 4 of Carved in Ruin

As we make our way to the bar, I hear the crack of a table flipping and glass shattering. My heart plummets instantly. This is bad—very bad. Mona seems to sense that, and makes a run for it to her husband.

I whip around to spot the commotion. Two men from the Albanian syndicate have an Italian pinned down, fists and boots flying. The Italian gasps for breath as a third Albanian drives his heel into the man’s ribs again and again. My blood turns cold.

It was bound to happen. The Albanians and the Italians have been at each other’s throats for weeks. Something about a drug shipment going missing, both sides blaming each other, accusing the other of stealing millions.

I instinctively search the room for Layla, panic clawing at my chest. My eyes dart from face to face until I see her. She’s standing stiff by one of the guards, who’s slowly pulling her behind him. Relief crashes over me, she’s safe.

Shouts erupt, and then, like the crack of thunder, the first gunshot rings out. My knees buckle. After that, everything devolves into chaos.

Gunfire ricochets through the room as the Albanians and Italians exchange bullets. Tables overturn, bottles shatter, screams everywhere. Windows explode, sending shards of glass flying everywhere. I can barely hear my own thoughts over the shots.

Oh god. Oh god.

I frantically scan the room for my father. My breath hitches in my throat when I spot him crouched low, taking cover behind a table with a few of his men.

I can’t move. I’m frozen, glued to the spot as my heart races, my body betraying me in the worst possible moment.

I can’t die. I’m still too young. God knows I haven’t experienced anything from this world yet, I never kissed anyone, never partied freely, and never had a real friend even. I don’t want to die.

And that’s when I feel him.

Rafael.

His arms wrap around me, and before I can even register it, he’s pulling me to the ground, his powerful body covering mine, shielding me. His weight is solid, grounding, and he yanks a nearby table over us. My mind races, but my heart? It slows. If I die now…I’ll die happy. He left his bimbo. He came for me.

I feel the warmth of him pressed against me, and a sob escapes me. His scent, the familiar spice and musk, envelops me, drowning out the fear for a moment. He smells like safety, like everything I’ve ever wanted but was too afraid to ask for.

I don’t care about the danger anymore. I don’t care about the war raging around us, the screams, and the gunfire. I only care that it’smeunder his body.Mehe’s protecting. Not her.

My eyes well with tears, and the sobs come faster now, wracking my body as the adrenaline fades and emotion takes over. His hand reaches up, brushing softly through my hair, and his voice, that deep, rich tone whispers next to my ear.

“Nyett. Don’t cry. It will be over soon,” he grunts, his breath hot against my neck.

I want to beg him. To stay. To care for me like he used to, before everything went wrong. But the words catch in my throat. All that comes out is a choked whisper, barely audible over the sounds of what’s happening.

“How can I stop crying? You finally came for me.”

Three

The Russian’s Return

Mila

It’s been a week since the shooting. A long, miserable week. Sometimes I wonder if I imagined him protecting me, but the whispers in our circle tell me I wasn’t hallucinating. He really did step in when the bullets started flying. Maybe I was stupid to think that protecting me would change anything.

When the gunfire finally stopped, he just pulled me to my feet, checked me for injuries, and walked off like it was nothing. I’ve not heard of him or seen him since.

But I can’t stop thinking about it. Every night, I feel his touch all over again. The way his fingers brushed my hair out of my face, his arm tight around my waist, his breath hot against my ear… Jesus. I’ve dreamt about it every night.

I push these thoughts away—they aren’t appropriate now, not while we’re all sitting around the table, having breakfast. Just as I’m about to take a bite of apple pie, Father speaks.“Rafael Ivanov is coming over for dinner tonight. I expect you both to be on your best behavior.”

My ears start ringing. I can’t swallow—it feels like concrete in my throat. I choke, coughing hard, and Layla gives me a quick pat on the back. I grab my orange juice and force it down, my eyes stinging. He’s coming here? After all these years?

I don’t want to ask, but it slips out before I can stop it. “Why?”

Dad’s gaze shifts to me, cold and hard. He doesn’t like being questioned. But I need to know. Please, tell me it’s for me. Tell me he’s coming to take what’s always been his. What I’ve been waiting for.

“Do you really think I won’t even thank him for protecting my daughter? I invited him to give proper thanks.” Father says with one eyebrow raised. He leans back in his chair and snickers “The Albanians and Italians couldn’t keep it civil for one damn night. Like animals, no discipline, no control.”

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