Page 3 of Carved in Ruin

Just as my fingers move to adjust the dress, my thumb brushes over the cold diamonds. I let out a small breath of relief. He wasn’t staring at my chest, he was staring at the necklace. How disgusting of me to accuse him of something like that, even if only internally.

“You look stunning,” he says, his voice warm as he presses a kiss to my forehead.

“Thanks, Father,” I mumble. He doesn’t even glance at Layla, which bothers me a lot. I’ve seen firsthand his tendency to ignore anyone he doesn’t think is worth his time, like they’re invisible. Layla looks gorgeous, though, and she deserves more than a passing nod.

“Look at how the color suits Layla, Father. You’ve got good taste,” I say. His gaze flickers over her, barely there.

“Yeah, sure,” he grumbles, already gesturing for us to follow him to the car.

I catch Layla’s eye and shoot her a smile. “You look amazing,” I whisper, squeezing her arm as we walk out.

The blacked-out SUV waits for us outside. As we slide inside, I catch a glimpse of the men standing guard, all dressed in black, guns holstered beneath their jackets. My father’s loyal men, stationed everywhere to protect his interests—and us, by extension.

We arrive at the restaurant, a place I’ve been to too many times before. The car door opens, and I step out, my heels sinking into the gravel for just a second before I find my footing. I straighten my shoulders, putting on my best smile. I’m not just here as myself. I’m here as his daughter. I need to play my part perfectly tonight.

At the bar, I catch sight of Bianca, the daughter of the Italian Don. She’s sipping wine, her red lipstick leaving perfect marks on the glass. We’ve known each other forever, but we’ve never been close, and that doesn’t matter. I walk over to her, my heelsclicking against the floor, and we exchange the standard three cheek kisses.

“Ciao, Bella,” I say with my rusty Italian. I’ve tried learning the language after a trip to Milano, but I just couldn’t grasp it.

She looks at me with a glossy look in her eyes— she’s bored, that makes two of us.

Our conversation is empty. We talk about fashion, gossip, who’s sleeping with who, as if any of it matters. I nod and smile, but my mind is elsewhere. I excuse myself when I spot the wife of the Moroccan Don, Mona.

“Salam,” I say while giving her a polite hug. I try to make it seem like I care about the meaningless things we talk about, like her trip to Paris and her new handbag. As we talk, I glance over at my father. He’s in the middle of a conversation with some Italians. He glances at me, catching my eye for just a second, before nodding and flashing me a grin. He approves, I can tell. I’m doing exactly what he wants—mingling, maintaining appearances.

Just as I open my mouth to excuse myself, I freeze. My body tenses, every nerve on edge, like I’ve been hit with a live wire. He’s here. Rafael Ivanov. The Pakhan of the Russian Bratva. The most dangerous man in this room, hands down. And the one person who has haunted my thoughts for years.

I can feel him before I even see him, that familiar pull tightening in my chest. I hate how much power he still has over me, how the mere thought of him sends shivers through my body. He’s a walking nightmare wrapped in charm. The little boy I’ll never get over, and the man who’s the absolute bane of my existence.

But, of course, he’s not alone. He never is. He strolls in with his latest conquest hanging off his arm like she’s some kind of accessory. She’s tall, blonde, with huge tits and overfilled ducklips. My jaw tightens, and I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to keep the burning in my heart from swallowing me whole.

Mona notices the shift in my energy the second Rafael walks in. Her eyes flick to him, her lips pulling into a slight frown. She snatches a glass of champagne from a waiter’s tray, thrusting it into my hand.

“Here,” she says, her tone light but knowing.

I down the drink in one go, the cold bubbles burning a path down my throat. She’s already handing me another before I even put the empty glass down.

“Are you trying to get me drunk, Mona?” I ask, trying to inject some humor into my voice, but it’s forced. The truth is, I don’t mind the idea of numbing myself tonight. Not when Rafael is parading around with his new arm candy.

Mona giggles. “Better drunk than sad, no?”

“Maybe.”

Mona analyzes me, dismantling me thought by thought. It creeps me out. “I don’t get why you care so much,” She says. “Sure, he’s devilishly handsome, but he’s just…I don’t know. Another one of them?” She gestures vaguely towards the crowd, but we both know what she means.

Rafael is more than just ‘another one of them.’ He’s the one who holds more power than anyone else here. He’s the one people fear, even the other Dons.

I sigh, not bothering to answer her. What’s the point? She doesn’t understand, and I’m not sure I can explain it. Hell, I don’t even fully understand it myself.

Rafael shifts in my peripheral vision, and I catch a glimpse of him looking my way, just for a second, but long enough to send a fresh wave of heat through me. There it is. That damn pull, the thing I’ve been trying so hard to ignore.

But as quickly as his gaze lands on me, it’s gone, back to the conversation with that bimbo like I never existed.

I turn back to Mona, plastering on a smile that feels all wrong. “Let’s get another drink,” I say.

Mona grins, raising her glass in agreement. “To survival,” she says with a wink.

I don’t know what she went through, or what she’s going through, but I do know that we are on the same boat tonight. We just want a distraction, anything to forget.

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