11. Art of a MonsterRafael
Eleven
Art of a Monster
Rafael
T he blade slides through the clay, carving out the curve of her lips. The lips I kissed. The ones I tasted, soft and trembling under mine. I haven’t washed my hand since I touched her. Her scent still lingers on my skin, faint but enough to pull me back into that moment. It is enough to remind me how I fucked everything up.
The strand of her hair I took from the fountain is still in my pocket. I haven’t thrown it away. I don’t know why I even grabbed it. Maybe because I couldn’t stand the thought of leaving any part of her behind. This is fucked up.
But isn’t this what I wanted? To see her break? To make her hurt?
The edge of the knife catches, and I press harder, the line deepening along the side of her cheek. Her cheek, the one I caressed, the one I held as if it was mine to touch. My chest tightens, rage clawing at me from the inside, but I don’t stop. The clay gives under my fingers, molding into her face, every detail burned into my memory. Her nose, her chin, her eyes.
Her blue eyes may as well be the death of me.
I pause, the blade hovering above the hollow I’ve started to carve for them. Those eyes ensnared me. They looked at me like I could be something more, like I wasn’t the goddamn monster I’ve always known I am. And that was her mistake.
Because I am.
I grip the blade tighter, carving out the shape of her pupils. It’s her deadly mistake to have given me her time, her trust, her fucking love.
Love.
The word alone makes me want to shatter the sculpture into a million pieces. My jaw clenches, and I force the thought away, turning my focus back to the clay. Her face stares back at me, alluring, perfect, everything I shouldn’t care about. But I do. Against all reason, I do.
Which is fucking bad.
Because no matter how much she’s worked her way into my veins, no matter how much I want to lose myself in her, I can’t stop. My plans are already in motion. I can’t let her derail this, not now.
I want to hurt her. Hurting her is the only way the demons of my past quiet. It’s the only way I feel like I’m avenging Father, the Bratva, and my fucking pride. Maxim Ivanov didn’t raise a wuss. I want her to feel the hurt in her chest, in her head, in the deepest parts of her that she doesn’t even understand. I want her to trust me, to think for just one second that I might be the man she needs, and then I want to tear it all apart. Let her see how stupid she was for believing in me, for thinking I could be anything other than her worst mistake.
I wanted her to feel it—how close she could come to having everything she thought we could be. I’d let her taste it, let her cling to the idea that maybe, just maybe, I was the man she could trust, the man who could save her. And then I’d rip it away, leaving her breathless and hollow.
I want to see her crumble under me, watch the light drain from her eyes as she realizes I’m not her savior. I’m her end. I want to be the one who builds her up just to knock her back down again.
Then there’s that other part of me. The part I want to kill. The part that aches when I see her hurt. It’s pathetic, really. I should let her drown, let her break, it’s what she fucking deserves.
But even as I tell myself that, my fingers betray me, smoothing out the clay with a tenderness that doesn’t belong here. My hands know what I won’t admit. They know she’s mine in ways I’ll destroy very soon.
I set the blade down, staring at her unfinished face. It doesn’t do her justice, not yet. But it will. Because I’ll finish it. Just like I’ll finish everything I’ve started.
And when it’s done? When my plans reach their conclusion?
She won’t forgive me. She can’t.
And maybe that’s for the best.
The door creaks open behind me, and I don’t bother turning around. Only one person would step into my space uninvited and live to tell the tale.
“If it were anyone else,” I say, the knife still in my hand. “I’d carve their fucking eyes out and feed them to the dogs.”
Anatoly chuckles. “Good thing I’m not anyone else, then.”
He sets a bottle of vodka and two glasses down on the table beside me. His gaze shifts to the sculpture, studying it with an intensity that makes my skin itch. I don’t like anyone other than me staring at her.
He pours two shots, pushing one toward me. “You’re different with the blade these days,” he says after a moment. “I remember when you first picked it up—back when we needed someone who could… send a message. Carving into flesh isn’t exactly the same as carving clay, but you took to it fast.” He pauses, his tone turning dry. “Never thought I’d see you using those hands to make art, though.”
I don’t reply.
He picks up his glass, downing the vodka in one smooth motion before leaning back against the wall. “I never would’ve imagined that it’s a face of a woman you’d carve so gently.”
“ Blin,” I curse under my breath.
Anatoly’s brow lifts, amusement flickering in his eyes, but he doesn’t comment.
“It’s nothing,” I snap, setting the knife down with more force than necessary. “Old feelings creeping back up, that’s all. They’ll go away.”
She’s my weak spot. But the need to see her hurt, to make her pay, burns hotter. Whatever obsession I feel for her doesn’t matter. It never will.
He hums, a low, skeptical sound that grates on my nerves, but he’s smart enough not to push. Instead, he pours himself another shot and sips it this time, letting the silence hang heavy between us.
I grab my glass and knock it back, the burn of the vodka grounding me, momentarily silencing the chaos in my head.
“You know,” Anatoly says, his tone careful, measured, “if you’re going through with the plan, there won’t be a Mila anymore.”
His words are a punch to the gut, but I don’t flinch. Instead, I meet his gaze, letting the venom seep into my voice. “I want them all destroyed.”
He doesn’t reply right away. Then, slowly, he nods, pouring us both another round.
I look back at the sculpture. Her face stares back at me, accusing, haunting.
It’s nothing, I tell myself again. Just old feelings. Nothing more.
“Did you make the call?” I ask, not looking up from Mila’s sculpture.
Anatoly nods. “I did.”
“Did that prick agree?”
“More than agreed. He’s practically salivating. The bastard’s acting like he’s won the lottery. He’s already picking out wedding dresses.”
“Disgusting,” I spit as I finally turn to face him. My fingers twitch, still smeared with clay, but I make no move to clean them. “He won’t see it coming. None of them will.”
“They’re weak,” Anatoly says. “Milos relies too much on those arms deals with the Bulgarians. We cut off that supply chain, and they’ll be scrambling. Easy pickings.”
I grab the vodka bottle and pour myself a fresh shot, downing it in one swallow. “The Bulgarians are greedy bastards. Offer them better terms—double what Milos gives them. Once they’re out, Milos loses half his weapons overnight. He’s nothing without them.”
“And his alliances,” I continue, my tone sharp. “We leak information to the Turks. Make it look like Milos is dealing behind their backs, undercutting them. They’ll go after him themselves.”
Anatoly smirks. “Let them tear each other apart. Less work for us.”
I tap the blade of my knife against the table. “But that’s not enough. I want him crawling. Ruined. I want him to see his empire crumble piece by piece, knowing he can’t stop it.”
Anatoly raises a brow. “You’ve got something specific in mind?”
“His finances,” I say. “Every bank he touches, every laundering operation—shut it down. Freeze the accounts. Leave him begging for scraps.”
“A man like Milos doesn’t survive without money. Take that from him, and he’ll implode.”
“That’s the idea.”
Anatoly studies me for a moment, then tips his glass in my direction. “You’ve thought of everything. By the time we’re done, Milos won’t even be a shadow of himself.”
I glance back at the sculpture, Mila’s face staring back at me with an expression I can’t quite name.
“Burn it all,” I mutter, more to myself than Anatoly. “Every last piece of him. No mercy.”
“You’re a ruthless bastard, Rafael.”
I know.
When the silence stretches, Anatoly breaks it. “You know, you could destroy Milos without all this marriage business. There is no need for it.”
I still my blade from tapping against the table. My jaw tightens, but I don’t look at him right away. There are things he doesn’t know, things I’m not keen to expose.
“I’m not just after Milos,” I say finally. “He isn’t the only one I want to hurt.”
Anatoly’s eyes narrow slightly, his gaze flicking to the sculpture on the table. For a moment, I think he’ll press the issue, but instead, he lets out a long sigh. “Of course, you’re not.” His tone is resigned. He steps forward and pats me on the back. “Congratulations, groom,” he says dryly.
I glance at him, my lips curling into a humorless smirk. “Fuck off, Anatoly.”
He chuckles. “Don’t look so grim. You’re getting exactly what you want, aren’t you?”
I don’t answer. Instead, my fingers brush over the clay as if Mila’s face will give me the answers I refuse to admit I’m searching for.