Page 62 of Carved in Ruin

I swallow hard, forcing a small laugh. “What can be done, Layla? This is our fate.”

Before she can respond, Yelena calls out, “Mila, come on! We’re starving!”

I lift a finger toward her, signaling for one more second.

“Who’s that?” Layla asks.

“Just some girls I’ve met in the Bratva,” I reply, trying to keep my tone light. “We’re out right now. Can I call you later?”

Layla’s quiet for a beat. “Of course,” she says finally. “Call me later, Mila. Please.”

“I will,” I promise before hanging up.

I return to the girls, pretending to be way more cheerful than I feel inside, and we continue our day.

Twenty Eight

Buried Secrets

Mila

The kitchen smells like burnt batter and desperation. I stand at the stove, oversized sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder, trying to salvage what’s left of my so-called pancakes. The batter is bubbling unevenly in the pan, edges blackened, and I know deep down this is a lost cause. Still, I flip it, watching as another pancake meets its untimely end.

I hear him before I see him, the sound of his heavy steps entering the kitchen. Rafael leans against the doorway, his eyes scanning me with that sharp, assessing look he always has.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” I snap back, poking at the pancake as if intimidation will save it.

“It looks like you’re butchering some pancakes.”

“Ha ha. Very funny.” I roll my eyes, lifting the pancake from the pan and adding it to the plate of previous disasters. They’reall misshapen, charred, or somehow undercooked at the same time.

“Where’s Nadia and the others?” he asks, crossing his arms.

“It’s Sunday,” I say, focusing on pouring the last of the batter. “I asked them to take the day off.”

“Why?”

“Why?” I echo, turning to glare at him. “Because not everyone’s a robot like you, Rafael. They deserve a break.”

He raises a brow, but I ignore him as the pancake starts to smoke. “Shit,” I mutter, quickly flipping it, only to find it’s beyond saving. Fantastic.

I scrape it onto the plate with the rest, then set the table with everything I’ve prepared: a jug of fresh orange juice, a plate of horribly chopped fruit, and the pile of pancakes I’m sure taste better than they look. Or maybe not.

“Don’t judge,” I warn him as I place the last item on the table.

He doesn’t say anything, just watches as I sit down and wave him over. “Sit,” I mutter, gesturing to the chair across from me.

He pulls it out and sits. I stack a few pancakes onto a plate for him, adding some fruit and pouring him a glass of juice. Sliding the plate across the table, I fold my hands in my lap and watch.

It’s not because I think he’ll choke, or because I somehow suspect I’ve created homemade poison. No, definitely not that.

He takes a bite, chews once, then swallows. He goes for another, and I blink.

“It’s good. Thank you,” he says simply, already cutting into the next piece.

I narrow my eyes at him. He’s lying. He has to be. I take a pancake, place it on my plate, and cut off a small piece. The moment it hits my tongue, I freeze.

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