Page 51 of Carved in Ruin

The Initiation

Rafael

Icross the room, stopping by the couch where Mila is still asleep. Her dark lashes fan against her cheeks, and the defiance from last night is gone, replaced by sleep. For a moment, I just watch her.

But today isn’t a day for softness.

I nudge her shoulder gently. “Wake up, Mila,” I say. Her eyes flutter open, confusion clouding them before annoyance takes over.

“What?” she groans, turning away from me.

“We have work to do,” I say. “You need to understand what it means to be the Pakhan’s wife. You’ll be meeting the Bratva today, some members and their wives.”

Her head snaps toward me, eyes narrowing. “Is this some sort of initiation?”

“Call it… an introduction,” I say, shrugging. “You’ll be in the room with them soon enough,Kroshka. It’s time they know who you are. And it’s time you know them.”

Her lips press into a tight line, but she doesn’t argue.

Later, she steps into the salon where the meeting is, dressed to perfection. I can see the wives sizing her up immediately. They whisper to each other, their eyes flicking to her and then back to one another. The men are more focused on the business at hand. However, I notice their wives’ pointed glances.

Seated to my left is Dima Sokolov, my second-in-command. He’s a scarred, rough motherfucker. Beside him is his wife Katya, the absolute opposite of him, a sweetheart. She’s the soft to his hard.

Across from us, Viktor Ivanov leans back in his chair, he’s my cousin, and our enforcer, his harsh reputation does all the talking. His wife, Sofiya, is almost as psychotic as him. They go well together. At the far end of the table is Igor Petrov, the financial genius of the Bratva, he turns blood into gold. Yelena, his wife, sits beside him, quiet and observant, her expression giving nothing away.

Mila walks into their silent judgment with her head high, a vision. She is wearing a striking red backless dress that clings to her figure. Her pin-straight hair frames her minimal makeup—save for the bold crimson lipstick that matches the dress perfectly.

“Dobroye utro,” she says, her Russian accented but clear.

“This is Mila, my wife.”

Dima gives her a curt nod. “Your reputation precedes you,” he hums.

Mila’s lips curve into a calm smile. “I’m sure it does. Though I’d rather earn your trust in person than rely on rumors.”

Katya leans forward slightly. “It’s not rumors we’ve heard. It’s… history. Your father sure left a stain that’s hard to ignore.”

For a moment, Mila’s face falls, but she recovers effortlessly. “I can’t change the past, but I can prove I stand with my husband, not against him.”

I don’t know if she is aware that they have no idea it was her behind the fire. No matter what, I couldn’t humiliate her by exposing that fact only I know. If anyone was going to hate her, it was only me. No one else.

Viktor’s dark chuckle cuts through the air. “Bold words.”

Without missing a beat, Mila meets his gaze head-on. “Boldness seems to be a prerequisite in your world, doesn’t it? Or else your Pakhan wouldn’t have married me. That was a bold choice.”

That earns a small smile from Sofiya, though she quickly schools her expression into something more neutral.

She’s right. The Bratva definitely has some concerns over me marrying her. Yet, these concerns are never voiced. No one dares to even insinuate that I don’t have the Bratva’s best interest at heart.

When the maid walks in, the room shifts. Mila stiffens beside me, her attention locking on her. Irina pours the drinks with ease, but her hand lingers on my shoulder as she refills my glass.

Mila’s grip tightens on her wineglass.

Irina puts her lips to my ear, barely moving as she whispers, “Khot’ ty i zhenat, ty znayesh’, gde menya nayti, Pakhan. Ona slishkom khrupkaya, chtoby spravit’sya s toboy.”

Turning to her, I speak in Russian as well, my voice lethal. “Mne ne nuzhen nikto, krome moyey zheny. Vashi uslugi bol’she ne vostrebovany i ne nuzhny. Proyavite k ney neuvazheniye yeshche raz, i vy pozhaleyete ob etom, Irina.”

Her face pales, and she steps back, but Mila raises a hand, stopping her in her tracks.

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