2. A Dance of Fire and Ice Mila
Disgust. Dread. Fear. That’s all I feel the next day when father hands us custom-made gowns for another one of these mafia gatherings. As usual, the dresses are so expensive they might as well be sewn with blood. It’s all so superficial, fake, and suffocating. But there’s no room for protest. In this world, you dress up, you smile, and you endure.
My father’s voice breaks through the haze as he surveys us. “Wear them well. Make me proud.”
Making him proud is all I want. Yes, he can be mean sometimes, downright cruel. Yes, he treats us like birds in a cage, fearing we’ll use our wings to fly. But he’s still my father. The one that would color with me, braid my hair, and spoil me rotten.
Layla glances at me in the mirror as she puts on her makeup, her face blank, but her eyes having the same reluctance as mine. She hates these events as much as I do. Even my sunshine’s light dims on nights like this
Tonight, he will be there, along with several capos from the Italian Cosa Nostra, and other mafia families. These events are supposed to be neutral ground, a place for alliances. But everyone knows it’s a powder keg, just one wrong word away from exploding.
And still, amidst the anxiety and the cold sweat pooling down my spine, I feel a spark of something else. Excitement. Anticipation. I hate myself for it, but I can’t deny it. It’s because I will see him . He won’t talk to me. He won’t even acknowledge I exist beyond a passing glance—if I’m lucky. But just seeing him is enough for me.
I put the dress on, and it clings to me like a second skin. It’s black, with a high slit that teases the pale curve of my leg, and the neckline plunges deep enough to make me feel exposed. I drape the diamond necklace father bought me for my birthday around my neck, and step into my four-inch Louboutin heels. I need all the extra height they can offer.
Layla’s dress is loud, bright orange, a color that does no one any favors, but somehow she pulls it off. It’s short, too short for my taste, and she keeps tugging it down every few steps.
We’re both putting the final touches on when the door swings open. Father strides in without knocking, and I scowl, annoyed by the Lack of privacy. At least Layla and I are already dressed. His eyes land on me, a smile curling his lips. There’s something in the way he looks at me that’s odd. His gaze drops from my face to my chest, lingering there too long, making my skin crawl. What the hell’s gotten into him today?
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 heels clicking 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 duck lips. 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.
As we make our way to the bar, I hear the crack of a table flipping and glass shattering. My heart plummets instantly. This is bad—very bad. Mona seems to sense that, and makes a run for it to her husband.
I whip around to spot the commotion. Two men from the Albanian syndicate have an Italian pinned down, fists and boots flying. The Italian gasps for breath as a third Albanian drives his heel into the man’s ribs again and again. My blood turns cold.
It was bound to happen. The Albanians and the Italians have been at each other’s throats for weeks. Something about a drug shipment going missing, both sides blaming each other, accusing the other of stealing millions.
I instinctively search the room for Layla, panic clawing at my chest. My eyes dart from face to face until I see her. She’s standing stiff by one of the guards, who’s slowly pulling her behind him. Relief crashes over me, she’s safe.
Shouts erupt, and then, like the crack of thunder, the first gunshot rings out. My knees buckle. After that, everything devolves into chaos.
Gunfire ricochets through the room as the Albanians and Italians exchange bullets. Tables overturn, bottles shatter, screams everywhere. Windows explode, sending shards of glass flying everywhere. I can barely hear my own thoughts over the shots.
Oh god. Oh god.
I frantically scan the room for my father. My breath hitches in my throat when I spot him crouched low, taking cover behind a table with a few of his men.
I can’t move. I’m frozen, glued to the spot as my heart races, my body betraying me in the worst possible moment.
I can’t die. I’m still too young. God knows I haven’t experienced anything from this world yet, I never kissed anyone, never partied freely, and never had a real friend even. I don’t want to die.
And that’s when I feel him.
Rafael.
His arms wrap around me, and before I can even register it, he’s pulling me to the ground, his powerful body covering mine, shielding me. His weight is solid, grounding, and he yanks a nearby table over us. My mind races, but my heart? It slows. If I die now…I’ll die happy. He left his bimbo. He came for me.
I feel the warmth of him pressed against me, and a sob escapes me. His scent, the familiar spice and musk, envelops me, drowning out the fear for a moment. He smells like safety, like everything I’ve ever wanted but was too afraid to ask for.
I don’t care about the danger anymore. I don’t care about the war raging around us, the screams, and the gunfire. I only care that it’s me under his body. Me he’s protecting. Not her.
My eyes well with tears, and the sobs come faster now, wracking my body as the adrenaline fades and emotion takes over. His hand reaches up, brushing softly through my hair, and his voice, that deep, rich tone whispers next to my ear.
“ Nyett . Don’t cry. It will be over soon,” he grunts, his breath hot against my neck.
I want to beg him. To stay. To care for me like he used to, before everything went wrong. But the words catch in my throat. All that comes out is a choked whisper, barely audible over the sounds of what’s happening.
“How can I stop crying? You finally came for me.”