Page 1 of Carved in Ruin

One

The Monster at the Table

Mila

My father is the worst man alive, and I’m his favorite daughter. He’s a monster to the world, but to me? He’s the man who tucked me in at night and read me bedtime stories. I know what he is. I know what he’s done. But he’s just my father.

I turn to look at him, His fingers are all over the plate ofpihtijein front of him, shoveling the jellied meat into his mouth. The way he eats it, it’s like he’s starved. Grease drips down his chin, pooling into the collar of his shirt, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a trail of slick on his skin before diving back in.

The only sound is the quiet clink of silverware against porcelain and my father’s chewing noises. That’s how it always is here, quiet, like no one wants to speak. I glance over at my sister. She’s poking at her food, her lips pulled into a pout. Her face is so much like mine,same long, straight black hair, same sharpnose, lips with that almost-too-defined cupid’s bow. But that’s where the resemblance ends. We couldn’t be more different, like night and day.

Layla is sunshine. Even now, with her exaggerated pout, I can almost sense her just wanting to laugh. She’s the life of every room she enters, light and carefree. But me? I carry the shadows of this place, the darkness seeping into my skin, clinging to me like a stench I can’t wash away.

I finish the last bite on my plate, folding my hands in my lap as I sneak a glance at my father. No one leaves the table until he’s done eating. That’s just one of the rules around here. There are plenty more.

My sister and I aren’t allowed to cut our hair, stay out late, or make too much noise in the halls. We can’t gain weight, and we definitely can’t curse. And that’s just scratching the surface. Who else, at twenty and twenty-three, still has a curfew? We do. That’s what happens when you’re born into the Serbian mafia.

Being older than my sister, even by just a couple years, meant it was on me to shield her from the blood and violence. I was the one who held her after we first saw bullets rip through our home. I was the one who comforted her when Father first came back drenched in blood and gore. It was my shoulder she cried on when our mother vanished one day, taking nothing but the shirt on her back and fleeing. When the rules were too much, I took the hit so she didn’t have to.

That’s why she’s like the sun, still bright, still innocent. And me? I’m the rain, dragging the weight of all of it.

I used to have someone who protected me.Him. The boy I spent my entire childhood with, the one who kissed my scraped knees and pretended he couldn’t find me during hide and seek. But nothing good lasts here. When I was nine, he just disappeared. No warning, no goodbye. Just gone.

A massive fire broke out in the Bratva. His father, the Pakhan, was killed. It was a devastating blow to the Russians—hundreds of men died and the Bratva lost their leader. After that, he never came to see us again, nor were we welcome to visit them.

My father had always been incredibly close to the Russians, especially the Pakhan. They were business partners in everything from weapons deals to smuggling. But after the fire, not a single one of them accepted my father’s offer to help. There’s a suspicion—a quiet one—that my father might’ve had something to do with it. They’ve searched, questioned, and investigated every angle. But they’ve found nothing. Not a single shred of proof that ties him to it.

Why would he kill his partner? Even my father isn’t that cruel.

He didn’t do it. He didn’t kill him. Deep down, I know they understand that. That’s why they haven’t sought vengeance. The fire? It was a result of their own negligence. Our family’s relationship with the Russians is cordial now, but it’s a far cry from what it used to be.

Pain slashes through my chest. It always does when I remember him. That boy I loved is no longer a boy; he’s a man now—a man who clawed his way through the ranks of the Russian mafia after the fire, rising from ashes to become one of the most powerful in New York. At just twenty-seven, he’s one of the most ruthless Pakhans the Russians have ever seen.

But when I look at him, I still pray to catch a glimpse of that boy who helped me in ways he could never comprehend. Yet there’s nothing left of him, he’s as bloodthirsty as everyone else in our world, a predator wrapped in a tailored suit.

Our relationship was never romantic; it was always platonic, innocent, something precious and rare in this nightmare of a life.

But now, acid burns a hole in my stomach every time I see pictures of him parading around with other women. They’re all beautiful, tall blondes—like models plucked from some magazine, flawless. The absolute opposite of me. He’s never seen with the same woman twice, it’s like they are disposable playthings.

I see him at some mafia events, those that are organized for connections, and maintaining the slightest illusion of peace. He doesn’t even spare me a glance. I’m left standing there, feeling like a lovesick puppy, gawking at him, hoping he’ll notice me, but he never does. I try to look away, to remind myself that he’s not the same person anymore, but it’s impossible. He’s magnetic.

It’s maddening. I want to scream, to shake him and demand to know where the boy who cared about me went. But deep down, I know he’s buried under layers of power and bloodshed, and I’m just left here, an afterthought. I reach for a sip of water, a knot forming in my throat. How could he forget me so easily when I’ve never been able to forget him?

He was my biggest heartbreak. Him leaving was even worse than my mother leaving, and that’s saying a lot. Despite her abandoning us when we were just young children, she was sweet and loving in that little time she spent with us. When she left, I hadhimto comfort me, but when he left, I had no one.

“Father, why can’t you let me go? I promise I won’t stay out too late, and I’ll take guards with me.” Layla begs.

“Enough!” My father roars, hurling his empty plate against the wall. It shatters, and glass goes everywhere. I jump, forcing myself to stay seated.

“No daughter of mine will go out to clubs,” he says, disgust twisting his features.

“I’m twenty! All my friends are going! You can’t keep me cooped up here forever!” Her voice rises.

Everything in me goes still. No one stands up to him. My little sunshine of a sister just did, and I hold my breath, bracing for the fallout.

He laughs, but it’s a cruel sound that sends shivers down my spine. “You think you’re worthy of freedom? You’re just like your mother—always looking for a way out. I wouldn’t be surprised if you ran away the first chance you got, just like she did. What’s next, Layla? Are you going to disappear too?”

His words hit her like a punch, and I can see her face blanch of color. My nails dig into my palms as I resist the urge to go to her, to hug her, to assure her that what he said isn’t true. My sister would never abandon our family. I don’t dare speak out; it would make my father angry. I’ll comfort her later when we’re excused to our rooms.

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