Page 13 of Carved in Ruin

“You want to be reckless?” I spit, shoving him back against the wall. “Then you answer for it. Starting wars isn’t your job. It’s mine.”

He sputters something, and I don’t care what it is. A swift kick to his chest knocks him flat to the ground.

“Next time, you get yourself into a mess like this, I won’t be the one pulling you out,” I warn.

Mikhail’s breathing is ragged, face contorted with pain, and he nods, barely holding himself together. He looks like hell. Still, he’s one of mine, and he needs to get this through his head.

“Listen to me, brat,” I growl, and he winces as I yank him close. “You’re lucky, you understand? I could’ve left you for the Albanians to tear apart. But no—” I grip his jaw, making him look me dead in the eyes, “I clean up my own messes.”

Mikhail’s eyes dart nervously, but he nods. “Da, Pakhan. I understand.”

“Do you?” I release him, letting him stumble back. “I expect this to be your last mistake. If there is a next time, I’ll personally leave you tied up on Albanian soil. Got it?”

“Da,da…Spasibo, Pakhan,” he mumbles, voice shaky with fear. Good. A little fear will keep him in line.

I ruffle his hair affectionately after his lesson, like I said, he’s one of mine, and I take care of what’s mine.

“Go clean up.” I order, and he rushes to the bathroom.

I turn to Anatoly, who’s been leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching silently. “Anatoly,” I say, brushing off my sleeves. “Send a ‘gift’ to the Albanians. An apology for tonight’s disturbance. Make it worth their while.”

Anatoly’s lips twist. “A shipment of our finest,da?”

“Yeah,” I say.

Anatoly nods, already planning out the details. “I’ll add a personal note. Something along the lines of, ‘Enjoy, compliments of Bratva.’ Maybe they’ll think twice before holding a grudge.”

The car is silent on the way back, save for the hum of the engine. I could have easily annihilated the Albanians, but the way to power is picking your battles. You learn when to strike, and when to sit back and let the other fool fall first. You don’t get to where I am without learning that, and if you do, you fall, fast and hard.

I catch sight of someone on the sidewalk. My jaw clenches, and I raise a hand.

“Stop.”

Anatoly slams on the brakes, and before he can even ask why, I’m out of the car. Mila’s crouched by her bag, fumbling as face paint, brushes, and a hailstorm of glitter scatters across the ground. A ridiculous, glittery butterfly covers her face, smudged on one side. Her hands are tangled in tubes of color that keep slipping from her grip.

I stride over, kneeling next to her, gathering the spilled face paint and closing the lids of unopened glitter pots. She glances up, her eyes widening.

“Rafael…” she breathes, half in shock, her lips parting.

The sorry excuse of a guard finally realizes who’s near her and starts to approach, but I fix him with a glare so dark that his face goes pale. The coward retreats, stumbling back to watch us from a safe distance like the weakling he is.

“Why do you look like a rainbow threw up on you?” I mutter, snapping another lid in place and shoving it back into her bag.

“You should see Layla,” she says, trying to contain her laughter but failing. And as if summoned, Layla stumbles out of a nearby car, her head encased in an oversized Minnie Mouse costume. The heavy breathing is audible even from here.

“I can’t breathe! I can’t—It smells like vodka and sweat in here!” Layla shrieks, yanking off the costume head.

Mila collapses into laughter, doubling over as Layla dramatically gasps for fresh air. I reach down to pull Mila up from the ground by her armpits.

“Mila,” I growl, my hand still holding her arm firmly, “what’s going on?”

“We managed to get scheduled to cheer up the kids at the cancer center,” she says softly.

I hum, glancing over at Layla, who’s eyeing the oversized Minnie Mouse head dangling in her hands. She glances between it and me, muttering under her breath, ‘I got this. I got this…’ Then, with a determined grimace, she jams it back on her head—only to gag audibly as she inhales whatever horrors await inside. “I got this,” she repeats, struggling to keep her balance.

I feel a twitch at the corner of my mouth. I watch as Mila pulls a surgical mask over her face. It’s practical, for the kids, but it covers the lips I’d rather see. She finishes adjusting it and glances up, her eyes catching mine.

“Why don’t you come with us?” Layla says, muffled behind the massive Minnie head as she staggers over.

---