24. The InitiationRafael
Twenty Four
The Initiation
Rafael
I cross the room, stopping by the couch where Mila is still asleep. Her dark lashes fan against her cheeks, and the defiance from last night is gone, replaced by sleep. For a moment, I just watch her.
But today isn’t a day for softness.
I nudge her shoulder gently. “Wake up, Mila,” I say. Her eyes flutter open, confusion clouding them before annoyance takes over.
“What?” she groans, turning away from me.
“We have work to do,” I say. “You need to understand what it means to be the Pakhan’s wife. You’ll be meeting the Bratva today, some members and their wives.”
Her head snaps toward me, eyes narrowing. “Is this some sort of initiation?”
“Call it… an introduction,” I say, shrugging. “You’ll be in the room with them soon enough, Kroshka . It’s time they know who you are. And it’s time you know them.”
Her lips press into a tight line, but she doesn’t argue.
Later, she steps into the salon where the meeting is, dressed to perfection. I can see the wives sizing her up immediately. They whisper to each other, their eyes flicking to her and then back to one another. The men are more focused on the business at hand. However, I notice their wives’ pointed glances.
Seated to my left is Dima Sokolov, my second-in-command. He’s a scarred, rough motherfucker. Beside him is his wife Katya, the absolute opposite of him, a sweetheart. She’s the soft to his hard.
Across from us, Viktor Ivanov leans back in his chair, he’s my cousin, and our enforcer, his harsh reputation does all the talking. His wife, Sofiya, is almost as psychotic as him. They go well together. At the far end of the table is Igor Petrov, the financial genius of the Bratva, he turns blood into gold. Yelena, his wife, sits beside him, quiet and observant, her expression giving nothing away.
Mila walks into their silent judgment with her head high, a vision. She is wearing a striking red backless dress that clings to her figure. Her pin-straight hair frames her minimal makeup—save for the bold crimson lipstick that matches the dress perfectly.
“ Dobroye utro ,” she says, her Russian accented but clear.
“This is Mila, my wife.”
Dima gives her a curt nod. “Your reputation precedes you,” he hums.
Mila’s lips curve into a calm smile. “I’m sure it does. Though I’d rather earn your trust in person than rely on rumors.”
Katya leans forward slightly. “It’s not rumors we’ve heard. It’s… history. Your father sure left a stain that’s hard to ignore.”
For a moment, Mila’s face falls, but she recovers effortlessly. “I can’t change the past, but I can prove I stand with my husband, not against him.”
I don’t know if she is aware that they have no idea it was her behind the fire. No matter what, I couldn’t humiliate her by exposing that fact only I know. If anyone was going to hate her, it was only me. No one else.
Viktor’s dark chuckle cuts through the air. “Bold words.”
Without missing a beat, Mila meets his gaze head-on. “Boldness seems to be a prerequisite in your world, doesn’t it? Or else your Pakhan wouldn’t have married me. That was a bold choice.”
That earns a small smile from Sofiya, though she quickly schools her expression into something more neutral.
She’s right. The Bratva definitely has some concerns over me marrying her. Yet, these concerns are never voiced. No one dares to even insinuate that I don’t have the Bratva’s best interest at heart.
When the maid walks in, the room shifts. Mila stiffens beside me, her attention locking on her. Irina pours the drinks with ease, but her hand lingers on my shoulder as she refills my glass.
Mila’s grip tightens on her wineglass.
Irina puts her lips to my ear, barely moving as she whispers, “ Khot’ ty i zhenat, ty znayesh’, gde menya nayti, Pakhan. Ona slishkom khrupkaya, chtoby spravit’sya s toboy. ”
Turning to her, I speak in Russian as well, my voice lethal. “ Mne ne nuzhen nikto, krome moyey zheny. Vashi uslugi bol’she ne vostrebovany i ne nuzhny. Proyavite k ney neuvazheniye yeshche raz, i vy pozhaleyete ob etom, Irina .”
Her face pales, and she steps back, but Mila raises a hand, stopping her in her tracks.
“Do you speak English, Irina?” Mila asks, her tone polite.
Irina nods hesitantly.
“Good. Until I learn Russian fluently, I expect to be included in all conversations in my home, especially those involving the staff.” Mila places deliberate emphasis on the word staff .
Irina glances between Mila and me, as if expecting me to defend her or something.
“So,” Mila continues, “what exactly were you discussing with my husband just now?”
Irina’s lips part, but no sound comes out. I move to speak, but Mila cuts me off sharply.
“Pakhan, this is me setting boundaries with the staff of my home.”
The room falls silent, everyone’s eyes on her.
Irina squares her shoulders, her chest puffing out as she sneers in broken English, “I told him you’re too small to take him. What are you, five-two? He’s six-five. I should know. I offered myself to please the Pakhan whenever his wife can’t.”
The air in the room freezes.
I expect Mila to explode, to lash out, but instead, she places a finger on her chin, humming thoughtfully. “No need to worry about that,” she says, her voice light, almost amused. “I can take him just fine. That’s why his ring is on my finger while that apron is tied around your waist.”
Irina’s face flushes crimson, her fists clenched as she moves to leave.
“Did I say you could leave, Irina?” Mila taunts.
Irina stops dead, turning back with a sharp glare. “Pakhan?” she probes with frustration.
“My wife is speaking to you.”
Irina’s gaze snaps back to Mila, who is now smirking, pure satisfaction radiating from her.
“Change the bed sheets in our room,” Mila says, her tone sweet as poison. “They’re quite… filthy.”
Irina nods stiffly, her jaw clenched as she turns to leave.
“Oh, and Irina?” Mila adds, stopping her once more.
The maid pauses, turning slowly.
“After you change them, you’re fired.”
Irina’s eyes dart to me. “ Ty sobirayesh’sya eto pozvolit’ ?” she hisses.
“Anything my wife wants.” I tell Irina.
The room remains silent as Irina storms out, and I glance at Mila, who’s still smiling. This woman— my wife —just declared war on anyone who disrespects her in the Bratva, and I’ve never been more proud.
“She has fire,” Viktor says, raising his glass.
“She’ll need it,” I respond.
“I like her,” Katya tells me with a smirk on her face.
“I’m sitting right here,” Mila says with an eye roll.
“So,” Sofiya intervenes, “you’re the new Pakhan’s wife. Quite a position for someone… untested.”
“I’ve been ‘untested’ in most areas of my life. It hasn’t stopped me from figuring things out.”
“And what exactly do you intend to figure out here? The Bratva isn’t exactly the place for experiments.” Sofiya continues.
“I intend to figure out what’s expected of me so I can exceed it. Seems smarter than walking in pretending I know everything, doesn’t it?”
“Smart answer.” Dima comments.
Mila takes a sip of her wine, her expression giving nothing away. “Besides,” she adds smoothly, “it seems like I’m surrounded by experts. I’m sure I’ll learn quickly.”
Mila turns her attention to Yelena.
“Your husband handles finances for the Bratva, doesn’t he?” she asks.
Yelena blinks, clearly caught off guard. “He does,” she answers cautiously.
Mila tilts her head slightly. “The funds used for the St. Petersburg expansion—weren’t those initially planned for a different operation? Something involving Zurich, if I’m not mistaken?”
Yelena’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “You’re well-informed.”
“I researched. The Zurich project was a smart move. But I imagine St. Petersburg promised a higher immediate return.”
Igor chuckles under his breath. “Your wife has a sharp eye, Pakhan.”
I smirk, but say nothing, letting Mila take the stage.
“You’re not what I expected you to be,” Yelena whispers.
“I’m not my father.” Mila sighs. “And if I were, Rafael probably wouldn’t have married me.”
The room fills with laughter. She has everyone eating out of the palm of her hand. When the evening winds down and everyone leaves, I guide Mila back to the bedroom. She walks ahead, her heels clicking softly on the hardwood floor. I follow, watching her, feeling something burn low in my chest that I can’t quite name.
She heads straight to the vanity, pulling out a small bottle of makeup remover and a few cotton pads. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I lean forward, elbows on my knees, watching as she wipes away her lipstick and the makeup around her eyes. Her reflection meets mine in the mirror.
“You did well tonight,” I compliment.
She hums lightly, tossing a used pad into the trash. “Did you think I’d embarrass you?” Her tone is calm, but there’s an edge beneath it. “As much as I hate this marriage, your reputation is mine now. If you look bad, so do I.”
Something about that admission stirs something primal in me. I like it. I like the idea of her tied to me. Of us being connected in ways neither of us can escape.
She unties the straps of her dress, letting it fall to her shoulders, stopping just above her breasts. My mind scrambles, drowning in thoughts of how much I want her.
“What is this about?” I manage, trying to focus. There is tension in the room.
“Irina,” she sing-songs as she picks up the hairbrush and starts brushing.
“That was casual,” I defend.
Her hands pause in her hair. “I don’t care about the past, I know you have a colorful one. What I care about is the present. You are not to disrespect me, Rafael.”
She sets the brush down, turns, and faces me fully. The dress clings precariously to her chest, threatening to fall with the slightest movement. She doesn’t seem to care. “You fuck a maid with me being your wife, I fuck two guards.”
I’m on my feet before I even realize it, towering over her, the possessiveness in me flaring hot and wild. My jaw clenches. “Don’t,” I warn, the word slipping out like a growl.
“You disrespect me, I disrespect you more,” she promises, brushing past me.
I catch her wrist, pulling her close enough to feel her breath against my neck. “You don’t touch anyone,” I hiss.
“Then don’t give me a reason to, Rafael.”
I stare at her, my grip firm but not enough to hurt. She’s infuriating, maddening. Especially when she doesn’t know that she’s the only one I crave. In the past, I used other women to forget her. Now? With her back in my life? My cock doesn’t even twitch for anyone but her.