Page 21 of Carved in Ruin

Anatoly chuckles. “Good thing I’m not anyone else, then.”

He sets a bottle of vodka and two glasses down on the table beside me. His gaze shifts to the sculpture, studying it with an intensity that makes my skin itch. I don’t like anyone other than me staring at her.

He pours two shots, pushing one toward me. “You’re different with the blade these days,” he says after a moment. “I remember when you first picked it up—back when we needed someone who could… send a message. Carving into flesh isn’t exactly the same as carving clay, but you took to it fast.” He pauses, his tone turning dry. “Never thought I’d see you using those hands to make art, though.”

I don’t reply.

He picks up his glass, downing the vodka in one smooth motion before leaning back against the wall. “I never would’ve imagined that it’s a face of a woman you’d carve so gently.”

“Blin,”I curse under my breath.

Anatoly’s brow lifts, amusement flickering in his eyes, but he doesn’t comment.

“It’s nothing,” I snap, setting the knife down with more force than necessary. “Old feelings creeping back up, that’s all. They’ll go away.”

She’s my weak spot. But the need to see her hurt, to make her pay, burns hotter. Whatever obsession I feel for her doesn’t matter. It never will.

He hums, a low, skeptical sound that grates on my nerves, but he’s smart enough not to push. Instead, he pours himself another shot and sips it this time, letting the silence hang heavy between us.

I grab my glass and knock it back, the burn of the vodka grounding me, momentarily silencing the chaos in my head.

“You know,” Anatoly says, his tone careful, measured, “if you’re going through with the plan, there won’t be a Mila anymore.”

His words are a punch to the gut, but I don’t flinch. Instead, I meet his gaze, letting the venom seep into my voice. “I want them all destroyed.”

He doesn’t reply right away. Then, slowly, he nods, pouring us both another round.

I look back at the sculpture. Her face stares back at me, accusing, haunting.

It’s nothing, I tell myself again. Just old feelings. Nothing more.

“Did you make the call?” I ask, not looking up from Mila’s sculpture.

Anatoly nods. “I did.”

“Did that prick agree?”

“More than agreed. He’s practically salivating. The bastard’s acting like he’s won the lottery. He’s already picking out wedding dresses.”

“Disgusting,” I spit as I finally turn to face him. My fingers twitch, still smeared with clay, but I make no move to clean them. “He won’t see it coming. None of them will.”

“They’re weak,” Anatoly says. “Milos relies too much on those arms deals with the Bulgarians. We cut off that supply chain, and they’ll be scrambling. Easy pickings.”

I grab the vodka bottle and pour myself a fresh shot, downing it in one swallow. “The Bulgarians are greedy bastards. Offer them better terms—double what Milos gives them. Once they’re out, Milos loses half his weapons overnight. He’s nothing without them.”

“And his alliances,” I continue, my tone sharp. “We leak information to the Turks. Make it look like Milos is dealing behind their backs, undercutting them. They’ll go after him themselves.”

Anatoly smirks. “Let them tear each other apart. Less work for us.”

I tap the blade of my knife against the table. “But that’s not enough. I want him crawling. Ruined. I want him to see his empire crumble piece by piece, knowing he can’t stop it.”

Anatoly raises a brow. “You’ve got something specific in mind?”

“His finances,” I say. “Every bank he touches, every laundering operation—shut it down. Freeze the accounts. Leave him begging for scraps.”

“A man like Milos doesn’t survive without money. Take that from him, and he’ll implode.”

“That’s the idea.”

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