Page 76 of Carved in Ruin

Thirty Two

No Mercy

Rafael

Three days.

Three fucking days since mykroshkanearly slipped through my fingers. The doctors say she’ll make a full recovery, but she’s barely been conscious. Pumped full of painkillers, her words are nothing more than garbled whispers, fragments of sentences I can’t piece together. She’s awake for maybe a couple of hours each day before drifting back into that drugged oblivion.

And I miss her. God, I miss her. The house is suffocating without her voice, her presence. Every corner feels hollow.

The “torture room” is quiet except for the faint creak of the chains. In the center of the room, Milos Jovanovich’s lifeless body hangs like a grotesque trophy, swaying slightly from the hooks embedded in his shoulders. The blood has dried in streaks down his torso, pooling beneath him on the cold concrete floor.I’ve been at this for hours, days maybe—I’ve lost track. Time stopped mattering when Mila bled out in my arms.

A cigar burns between my fingers, the smoke curling lazily around me. My eyes are on him. I tortured him in ways I’m sure he could feel even in the afterlife. It wasn’t enough. Not enough to erase the memory of her blood soaking my hands. Not enough to quell the storm in my chest.

The door creaks open and Anatoly steps inside. His boots echo against the concrete as he approaches, his gaze flicking to the mangled body before quickly averting.

“It’s been a while since the Pakhan has been driven to such… violence,” he says carefully, his tone more observation than judgment.

I grunt in response, taking a long drag from the cigar, the smoke burning my lungs.

“What do you want me to do with him?”

I exhale slowly. “Take a picture.” My voice is low, almost a growl. “Spread it everywhere. Let everyone know what happens if they even think about breathing wrong next to Mila.”

His lips press into a thin line and he nods. “And the Bratva too?”

I meet his gaze, my eyes cold. “And the Bratva too.” I don’t miss his jab.

Anatoly moves toward the body, pulling out his phone. He snaps a picture, his jaw tight, muttering under his breath as he works. “She’s changed you.”

I hum in agreement, my grip tightening around the cigar. She’s more than changed me—she’s consumed me, become the axis my entire world tilts on. There was a time when I would have prioritized the Bratva above all else, but now?

She’s number one.

Mila will wake up. She’ll get better. And when she does, I’ll be there.

“Milos had a brother,” Anatoly tells me absent-mindedly.

“A brother?”

“Name’s Stefan Jovanovich. Used to be part of the Serbian mafia, but he left years ago. Didn’t like how Milos ran things. Took his son and walked away.”

“So, another person to torture,” I muse.

“He’s not like Milos,” Anatoly adds quickly. “The man doesn’t have the stomach for it. That’s why he left. But he’s taken over what’s left of the Serbian mafia after Milos… well.”

“Let’s pay him a visit,” I say, standing and extinguishing the cigar in the ashtray.

The drive to the Jovanovich’s estate is quiet, the only sound the low hum of the car’s engine. My men sit like statues, weapons loaded, eyes scanning the darkness outside. I made sure Layla’s out of that mansion, secured in a safe apartment, guarded and far from the chaos. It’ll please Mila to know I’m taking care of her sister.

When we arrive, I notice he’s changed the guards. Smart. However, the guards are predictably useless. One glance at my cold eyes and the arsenal we’re carrying, and they crumble, opening the gates without as much as a word.

Stefan Jovanovich is already waiting for us, standing in the entryway like a man walking to his execution. Behind him is his son, barely in his late teens, his wide eyes darting nervously between me and the exit.

“Pakhan,” Stefan greets, his voice steady, but his hands betray him—they tremble ever so slightly. “I was expecting you.”

“Then you’ve had time to think about what you’ll say.”

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