18. When Kingdoms CollapseMila
Eighteen
When Kingdoms Collapse
Mila
Y ou know how people say it gets better? That time dulls the edges? Well, that’s not my reality. I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the ceiling, while downstairs, my father tears the mansion apart.
His hand—the one Rafael shot—is beyond repair. The nerves were severed clean through. The doctors say amputation might be necessary, but his good hand still works just fine to smash vases and throw furniture against the walls.
Disaster struck this morning. The Bulgarians, the ones supplying his weapon stockpiles, decided to cut ties. I hear part of his raging phone call through the walls.
“You listen to me! I’ve kept this arrangement clean for years. You want to sever it over a better offer? Fine. Tell me who the fuck paid you off.”
A pause. Silence, then a guttural roar.
“They offered you three times what I pay? What do they want, gold-plated Kalashnikovs? ”
Another crash. A chair this time, judging by the splintering sound.
“I don’t give a damn if the shipment was conditional. You move that stock, and you move it to me! I don’t care about your buyer’s ‘terms.’ You think I won’t find out who’s behind this? I’ll carve their name into your goddamn tombstone!”
I press my hands over my ears, but it doesn’t help. His voice cuts through the wood and stone.
“You sell to that bastard, and you’re dead. Do you understand? I’ll make sure you choke on the money they promised you!”
The call ends with a loud beep, followed by the sound of something heavy, probably his desk, being upended.
He’s unraveling, and we’re all going down with him.
I know more about other mafias than my own. My father made sure of that. Not out of love or concern, but because he didn’t trust us not to betray him. It wasn’t for safety like I’d once tried to convince myself. It was control. Isolation. He kept us in the dark while parading himself as untouchable.
I feel so disconnected from Serbian culture it’s almost embarrassing. I barely know a handful of words in the language, and even those feel foreign on my tongue. My father never encouraged me to learn, never told me stories about his home or what it was like growing up there. It was like that part of him didn’t exist, or maybe he just didn’t want it to exist for me.
I don’t know a single member of the family I was born into. Not their faces, their names, or their alliances. But I know the others. The Bulgarians, the Triads, even whispers of the Yakuza. I know their structures, their leaders, and their rules. And I know this: my father is blind.
No—blind isn’t the word. He’s in denial. Because even if he knows it is Rafael behind all this, what can he do? Challenge him? Retaliate? He might as well have thanked Rafael for sparing his life.
No one denies or challenges the Phakan. Not if they value their lives, their power, or their pride.
“Respond, you bastards!” he yells, his voice cracking as the desperation bleeds through. It’s the fifth time he’s called the Turks, and still, no one responds. And then comes more breaking, more destruction, like he can smash his way out of the mess he’s sinking into.
This is bad. Really bad. I’m not stupid. I know how this works. The way I eat, the clothes I wear, the roof over my head—it’s all blood money. It’s not clean, not moral, but it’s the only life I’ve ever known. If the Turks have cut him off, just like the Bulgarians, then that life is on borrowed time. Father’s savings will dwindle into nothing soon—he was too cocky, too sure of himself, never imagining it could all fall apart like this. So, he never took any precautions in case his world shattered.
And the hit won’t just be his. It’s mine too. My father never let me work, never taught me how to stand on my own two feet. He said it was for my protection, that I didn’t need to worry about things like that. And I believed him. God, I was so fucking compliant. I didn’t fight him. I didn’t resist. I let him clip my wings and stayed in the cage like a dutiful little bird.
But now, the cage is crumbling around us, and I can’t fly.
The phone buzzes in my hand, startling me. For a moment, I think about ignoring it, nothing good comes from calls these days. But when I glance at the screen, my breath hitches.
Elliot.
The professor. Of all the people who could be calling me, I didn’t expect him. My father’s tirade is still at its peak and I instinctively move to the window. The frame groans as I push it open, leaning out far enough to let the cold air numb my skin. Maybe this way, he won’t hear what’s happening in the background.
I clear my throat and answer. “Hello?”
“Ah, hello!” His voice is warm. “This is Elliot. From the conference?”
“Yes, I remember,” I say quickly. “How are you?”
“I’m well, thank you. How are you doing?”
I hesitate. How does one even begin to explain the mess behind me? “I’m… fine,” I say, and it sounds more convincing than I thought it would.
There’s a pause on the line, just long enough to make me wonder if he heard the lie. Then his voice comes through again, calm and casual. “Good. I’m glad. Listen, I wanted to ask you something.”
“Okay…” I say cautiously, leaning further out the window.
“I have a proposition for you.”
“What kind of proposition, Professor?”
“Elliot,” he corrects gently. “And It’s something I think you’ll love to hear,” he continues. “But it’s better discussed in person. Would you mind meeting me?”
“Meet you?” I sound like a parrot.
“Yes,” he says, “just for a quick coffee. How about the café downtown? The one with those oversized mugs of coffee everyone seems to love. Do you know the one?”
I nod, even though he can’t see. “Yes, I know it.” It’s been all over Instagram.
“Perfect. Can you be there in about an hour?”
I hesitate, glancing back into my room, where the air feels stifling despite the open window. Leaving right now feels risky, but staying here feels worse. “Yeah,” I say finally. “I can make it.”
“Good,” he mutters, and I can almost hear the smile in his voice. “I’ll see you soon.”
The line clicks off, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. What could he possibly want?
I pull on a pair of jeans and a wool top, grateful for how much easier it is to manage my hair now that it’s been chopped short. I clip it back, apply a thin layer of concealer under my eyes, and swipe on some lipstick so I don’t look like a walking corpse. Tossing on my coat, I head out through the back door.
Facing my father isn’t an option right now. The guards at the gate don’t even glance in my direction as I pass. No surprise, they’re in Rafael’s pocket. Whatever his reasons, I know they won’t snitch.
Sliding into a cab, I give the address for the café and sink into the seat, trying not to let my nerves get the best of me. When I arrive, the scent of freshly brewed coffee hits me. I scan the room, phone in hand, about to call him when I spot him sitting to the far right, nursing a black coffee.
Taking a breath, I move toward him. He stands when he sees me, extending his hand with a warm smile.
“Thanks for coming,” he says as we shake hands.
“Of course,” I reply.
We sit, and the waitress appears almost instantly. “Black coffee,” I say, mirroring his order.
I wrap my hands around the mug when it arrives, the heat seeping into my cold fingers. He takes a sip, and I follow suit, though my hands tremble slightly.
“So,” I start, breaking the silence. “You said you had a proposition?”
“Do you have a bachelor’s degree?” he asks casually.
I nod. “Yes.”
“In what field?”
“English literature.”
He raises an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “That doesn’t suit you.”
I laugh, the sound spilling out before I can stop it. “I know,” I admit. “It really doesn’t.”
He chuckles, but then his expression shifts to something more serious. “The university has a new program,” he begins, leaning forward. “It’s a master’s in physics, designed for students with diverse academic backgrounds. It’s for people like you—those who might not have followed a traditional path but have the potential to excel.”
My breath catches. For a moment, I’m certain I can hear angels singing. This is it. This is what I’ve always wanted. But before I can let myself get carried away, reality slams into me like a brick wall.
“How does that work?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
“You’d start with a preparatory year to cover the foundational courses,” he explains. “Once you complete that, you’d transition into the master’s program.”
I hesitate, remembering the grim state of reality. “Professor…” I begin, but he holds up a hand.
“Elliot,” he insists.
“Elliot,” I repeat, my voice faltering. “I’m not in a good financial position right now. I can’t afford tuition fees.”
He pauses, his brows furrowing in thought. Then, to my surprise, he reaches across the table and places his hand lightly over mine.
“There’s financial aid,” he tells me. “You can apply for scholarships. I’d be happy to write you a recommendation.”
I bite my lip, overwhelmed by the offer but still unsure. Before I can respond, he continues.
“I also need an assistant,” he says, meeting my eyes. “Someone to help with preparing Powerpoints, organizing lab work, and keeping my schedule on track. If you’re interested, the position is yours.”
I blink at him, stunned. “Why me?” I ask tentatively.
Elliot smiles faintly, his grip on my hand tightening just slightly. “Because I see great things in you. You might not see it yet, but you will.”
I draw in a shaky breath, overwhelmed. “Thank you,” I whisper. Then, gathering my courage, I add, “I promise, I’m going to work so hard. I won’t take this opportunity for granted.”
“So,” he says, “should we get started on the application?”
“Yes, please.”
For once, it feels like things might actually be turning around. Maybe I can finally be someone I’m proud of, not for anyone else, just for me. The thought barely has time to settle before Rafael walks in. He moves through the café like he owns it—like he owns everything, like he owns me, and his eyes are zeroed in on my hand in Elliot’s.