13. Scorched TruthsMila
Thirteen
Scorched Truths
Mila
T he mansion is buzzing with energy. My father has organized a small celebratory party at the news. Everywhere I turn, flowers crowd my view—roses, lilies, and exotic blooms I don’t even know the names of. It’s like someone took the Amazon rainforest and dumped it in every corner of the mansion. Father spared no expense.
I smooth down the glittering fabric of my rose-colored set. My hair is swept up in an intricate updo, and the makeup artist did an amazing job. But the mask only goes so far. Beneath it all, I feel like a fraud.
Layla stands in front of the mirror, adjusting the lace sleeves of her white silk dress. It pools around her feet like liquid light, her dark hair cascading in glossy ringlets. Her eyes smolder with the smoky makeup, and her lips—painted a bold red—are a striking contrast to her pale skin. She looks breathtaking.
“You’re gorgeous,” I marvel at her.
Layla turns and presses a quick kiss to my cheek, leaving behind a perfect red imprint. She notices it almost immediately and wipes it away with her thumb, her brows furrowing.
“Are you okay?” she asks cautiously.
I nod. “I’m fine.” The lie rolls off my tongue so easily now. I’ve been practicing.
I’m not fine. I’m far from it. But this isn’t about me. My sister deserves this moment, this chance at freedom. I won’t ruin it because of my misplaced feelings or my stupid sense of entitlement. Rafael doesn’t want me. He never did.
“Let’s go,” I say.
We descend the staircase together, Layla moving like she owns the world, and me…well, I’m just trying not to fall apart. The leaders of the Bulgarian and Turkish mafias, Ivan with his wife Elena, and Kemal with his wife Aylin, are here. They are my father’s closest allies.
I walk through the room, greeting each of them with politeness. They kiss my cheek, call me “princess,” and offer compliments. I smile where I need to, nod where it’s expected, all while keeping a tight leash on my emotions.
“Congratulations, Layla,” Ivan says with a heavy accent. “Being the future wife of the Pakhan suits you well.”
Aylin chimes in, “You’re one lucky girl.”
Everyone knows of the influence of the Bratva. She truly is a lucky girl.
Layla’s response is measured. “Thank you. I’ll try my best to live up to it.”
They go back to conversing with Father, and I focus on breathing. A panic attack here is the last thing I want.
And then I see him.
He’s leaning against the edge of the long dining table, his suit dark and perfectly tailored, his presence magnetic as ever. He looks up as I approach, and for a moment, his sharp green gaze pierces through me. But I refuse to flinch.
I extend my hand, my expression blank. “Rafael.”
He takes it, his grip lingers, but I pull my hand away quickly. “Mila,” he says, his tone unreadable.
I turn to the man beside him, tilting my head slightly, I offer a polite smile. “And who is this?”
Rafael’s eye twitches, his teeth clenching. “Anatoly. A friend.”
I nod, shaking Anatoly’s hand. He is handsome, yes, but nothing compared to Rafael. Not that it matters.
“Nice to meet you,” I say simply, before stepping back and gesturing to the seat next to me. “Layla.”
She takes the chair, her radiant smile directed at Rafael. I sit beside her. It puts me directly across from Anatoly. Rafael is staring holes at me, but I ignore it.
The table fills with chatter as I sip my wine. Rafael’s presence looms, his voice husky as he speaks to my father and Anatoly. It grates against my nerves.
I glance at Layla. She’s glowing, absolutely beaming at Rafael like he’s already her husband. I plaster on a smile. I’m getting better at pretending like I’m not dying inside.
“You’re quiet tonight, Mila.” Rafael says.
I meet his eyes. “I didn’t realize I was required to entertain.”
Anatoly chuckles softly beside him, but Rafael’s pissed off expression doesn’t change. “Not required, no. But expected.”
I lift my glass, feigning a toast. “Then consider my silence a gift.”
His eyes darken, but he says nothing, turning his attention back to my father. I exhale slowly. This is my life now—feigned indifference and quiet suffering.
I’ll survive.
The conversation around the table quiets as my father stands and waits for the room to settle. “I’m pleased to announce,” He begins, “that my daughter Layla has chosen Mila as her Kuma for the wedding.” He pauses as if he’s waiting for applause, but the room just listens. “In Serbian culture, Kuma’s are like bridesmaids,” he explains, his eyes flicking between the faces at the table. “They are for support, for strength. A true honor.”
I can feel my throat tighten, but I force myself to smile. He couldn’t even stop himself from making this all about me. God, I hope he doesn’t make me wear white to Layla’s wedding
“Oh, this is going to be the best part,” I blurt out, the words escaping before I can catch them. I laugh, not really meaning it, but needing to say something—anything—to break the tension. “The Kuma part, I mean,” I add quickly, as if anyone really needed clarification. “That’s what I’m most excited for in the whole wedding.”
I swear I hear Rafael’s low growl from across the table. It’s barely a sound, more of a vibration in the air. It’s enough to send a shiver down my spine. I tilt my head slightly, glancing at him from the corner of my eye, trying to read him.
What the hell is his problem now? Does he want me to cry? Is that it? Sick motherfucker.
Father looks at Rafael. “And who will your Kum be, Rafael?”
I glance over at him, waiting for his answer. He scoffs, as though the question is beneath him. “I don’t care about all this planning bullshit.”
The table stirs, a few uncomfortable glances exchanged.
“You must choose one, Rafael,” Father insists.
Rafael doesn’t look pleased. “Fine. Anatoly.”
I turn to Anatoly, who is watching Rafael’s casual dismissal of the entire situation.
“Save me a dance at the wedding, okay?” I ask Anatoly, my voice far too chipper for the way I feel.
“Of course,” he replies smoothly, lifting his glass in a casual toast. “We’ll have a few dances.”
We clink glasses. The sound of glass shattering echoes in the room. Everyone jumps, startled, their heads snapping in Rafael’s direction.
His hand is still raised, but now, there’s a jagged line of glass embedded in his palm, blood dripping slowly onto the table, staining the linen. The broken remains of the glass lie around him, a few fragments still clinging to his hand.
His expression is hard to read, a dangerous look flashing in his eyes as he wipes the remnants of the drink off his hand. His lips twitch, trying to mask whatever frustration he’s feeling, and he chuckles darkly.
“Your glasses are weak, Milos,” he mutters, attempting to pass it off as a joke.
The table laughs, though it’s forced. The tension is thick now. A maid hurries over, quickly cleaning up the glass shards and replacing his drink.
He removes the shards from his hand, and wipes it off, the blood staining his fingers. He is still looking at me, as if daring me to say something. I don’t.
I need to get out. I mutter some excuse about needing the bathroom, but really, I just need to escape for a second.
The hallway is my only moment of peace—but it’s fleeting. Before I can even reach the bathroom door, someone shoves me inside. My back hits the wall as the door locks behind me.
I look up, my breath caught in my throat. Rafael.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I spit, not caring about the danger in his eyes. I don’t care how much bigger, stronger, or more terrifying he is.
He grabs my arms, his grip too tight. “Why the hell are you so okay with all of this?” he barks.
I freeze, thrown off by his words. He looks angry, like something’s burning him up inside. But this isn’t just anger. This is…something else. He wants to hurt me, humiliate me. And he’s pissed that I’ve just accepted the news.
“Why would I care?” I force the words out. “It’s not like we have any claim on each other.”
He laughs, but it’s sick. Mocking. “Why should you care?” he repeats, like it’s a joke. “My lips were on yours. My fingers were inside you a day ago, Mila.”
I shiver, the memory flooding my thoughts, but I don’t let him see how much it messes with me. “You’re so crass,” I hiss, trying to push it all away.
He doesn’t back off. He steps closer, his body heat overwhelming me. I can feel the space between us disappearing, every inch of my skin hyper-aware of him.
“Why don’t you care?” he stresses.
I move in, close enough that our noses touch. “Because you aren’t mine, and I am not yours.”
His fist slams into the counter next to us, and I roll my eyes. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.
“Why do you want to hurt me?” I yell.
“Because it’s all because of you,” he spits, his words like a venom I can’t escape.
“All because of me?” I ask, confused, my heart slamming in my chest.
“You were the reason the fire broke out that day. Mila, YOU. It was you who set the fire at your father’s request. It’s how that fucker bypassed security.”
My legs give way, and I stumble backward, collapsing to the cold bathroom floor. The nausea hits me like a freight train. No. No, that can’t be true. I don’t remember. I can’t remember.
He stands cruelly over my kneeling form. “You ruined me, Mila. You took away my father. You betrayed the Bratva. Your loyalty was with that prick, not to me.”
I curl into myself, my hands shaking. My thoughts spin out of control, crashing together in a whirlwind of guilt, fear, and regret. I hurt so many people. I hurt him.
I don’t remember any of it. Not what happened. Not the fire. Not what I did.
But he wouldn’t lie about this. He wouldn’t.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice barely there. “I’m so sorry.”
“Your sorry means nothing.”
I stand up shakily, desperate to keep some control. I grab his shirt, pulling him toward me. “I was nine,” I shout, my voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to. I don’t even fucking remember.”
He just watches me, unmoving, like I’m not even there.
“I know what I did was horrid,” I say. “But I was nine! I didn’t know any better. I was just doing whatever Father told me to do.”
I feel the panic building, but I don’t stop. “Maybe, just maybe, I’m not an evil person. Maybe I was just fucking nine.”
But he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t react. He just watches me fall apart.
I reach out to point at him. “But you…” I breathe. “I’m an idiot.”
I hit my head with my hands, desperate for the pain to stop, for the confusion to go away. “I trusted you. How could I have trusted you?”
He grabs my wrists, stopping me from hitting myself. “Stop it,” he barks.
I shake my head.” You came out of nowhere and flipped my life upside down. I opened my heart to you. I talked to you about us, about love. I thought… I thought I was finally getting to you.” My voice cracks, my tears spilling faster. “And then you go and ask for my sister’s hand? For what? To hurt me? To punish me for something I didn’t even understand back then? I was nine, Rafael. I didn’t know what I was doing—what my father made me do. Who even are you? I don’t recognize you anymore.”
He explodes. “Shut up!” His shout rattles the walls.
“Who am I? Who the fuck are you?” His words come out in a growl. “You’ve been circling me like some innocent dove, acting as if you didn’t betray me. Acting as if you didn’t kill my father. As if you didn’t force me to take on the weight of an entire Bratva at fucking thirteen!”
He removes my hands from his collar. “What were you doing at thirteen, huh? Tell me!” His anger is blazing. “At fourteen? At fifteen? At sixteen? At seventeen? You were living your perfect little life. Jetting off to Paris, to Milan, attending university, flaunting yourself like the queen of the world—all while I was drowning in the hell your father left me in!”
He pauses, breath ragged. “While I was drowning with the weight of the person I was becoming. The person the Bratva needed. I was learning how to kill, how to lead, how to keep the wolves from tearing us apart. You? You lived like nothing of it ever happened, pretending to be some innocent mafia princess victim.”
The tears won’t stop coming.
“You don’t get to cry about this, Mila. You don’t get to act like the victim. Not after everything you’ve done.”
“I didn’t know,” I whisper. He ignores what I said.
“What do you plan for us?” I brave to ask.
He tilts his head, his lips drawn into a blood curling smirk. “I’m going to destroy everything your father built. Every last piece of it. As for your sister?” He pretends to think it over. “I don’t know what will hurt you more—me hating her or loving her.”
I swallow hard. “Which one do you plan to do?”
“The one that breaks you the most. I need to hurt you, Mila. Don’t you get it?” His laugh is cold. “I gave you a little taste, and you came running after me. Chasing me, begging for more. No matter how much I hurt you, how deep I cut, you’ll always come back.”
We just stare at each other after that. His words break me. They break me because they make me feel small. Rafael doesn’t break eye contact. His gaze is intense, as if he’s waiting for me to move, to react, to do something that could change whatever this is between us.
Then, slowly, he plasters his body to mine.
His hand comes to the side of my face, his fingers brushing my jawline before his lips find mine. It’s desperate, hungry, and I feel myself giving in for just a second—just a second—to the kiss. It’s like everything inside me wants to remember what this felt like, wants to feel him again, even though I know I shouldn’t.
But then, reality slams into me. His betrayal. My guilt. The fire. My sister.
I break it, and push him away, hard. “Never again, Rafael. Never again.”
He looks at me like he can’t understand what just happened, like the kiss was all he ever wanted and now it’s gone, just like that.
I unlock the door, but before I step out, I turn back to him one last time.
“Your future bride is waiting for you at that table,” I say. “Don’t fixate on her sister, because today… she’s finally given up on you.”
I whisper, almost to myself, “And on herself.”
Then, without another word, I walk out.