Page 31 of The Devil's Thorn
His head is slightly turned, speaking to someone beside him—a woman with blood-red lipstick and a slit in her dress that makes her legs look like weapons.
Two other men sit at the table. One I recognize from intel—his name’s Mikhail Vasin, Bratva consigliere. The other is a ghost, lean and silent, eyes always scanning.
Rafael’s face is partially hidden behind the low golden light above him, but I still feel it—his presence.
It coils down my spine like smoke, thick and sharp, sliding into my bones before I can brace for it.
He hasn’t looked at me yet.
And still—I can’t breathe.
I swallow once and walk toward them. Each step is deliberate. Balanced. Quiet.
I stop two feet from the table, just close enough to be noticed but not close enough to intrude.
“Good evening,” I say, voice smooth, steady. “Would you like to start with drinks?”
Rafael doesn’t look at me right away.
The others do. Mikhail nods, already placing his order. The woman barely glances up—she murmurs something about champagne. The third man says nothing.
Then, finally…
He turns his head.
And looks at me.
Dark eyes meet mine. Unreadable. Cold. Alive in a way that steals the air from the room.
Not a flicker of recognition.
But something else.
Interest. Focus.
Like I’ve stepped into the crosshairs of a man whochooseswhat he sees. And he’s already decided to see me.
I don’t blink.
I don’t flinch.
He holds my gaze just a second too long. Then he speaks.
“Whatever you recommend,” he says softly.
My pulse skips.
I nod once, forcing a slight smile. “I’ll return shortly.”
Then I turn, and I walk away.
But his gaze doesn’t leave me.
I feel it.
I feelhim.
And I know now—the game has begun.
