3. The Russian’s Return Mila
It’s been a week since the shooting. A long, miserable week. Sometimes I wonder if I imagined him protecting me, but the whispers in our circle tell me I wasn’t hallucinating. He really did step in when the bullets started flying. Maybe I was stupid to think that protecting me would change anything.
When the gunfire finally stopped, he just pulled me to my feet, checked me for injuries, and walked off like it was nothing. I’ve not heard of him or seen him since.
But I can’t stop thinking about it. Every night, I feel his touch all over again. The way his fingers brushed my hair out of my face, his arm tight around my waist, his breath hot against my ear… Jesus. I’ve dreamt about it every night.
I push these thoughts away—they aren’t appropriate now, not while we’re all sitting around the table, having breakfast. Just as I’m about to take a bite of apple pie, Father speaks. “Rafael Ivanov is coming over for dinner tonight. I expect you both to be on your best behavior.”
My ears start ringing. I can’t swallow—it feels like concrete in my throat. I choke, coughing hard, and Layla gives me a quick pat on the back. I grab my orange juice and force it down, my eyes stinging. He’s coming here? After all these years?
I don’t want to ask, but it slips out before I can stop it. “Why?”
Dad’s gaze shifts to me, cold and hard. He doesn’t like being questioned. But I need to know. Please, tell me it’s for me. Tell me he’s coming to take what’s always been his. What I’ve been waiting for.
“Do you really think I won’t even thank him for protecting my daughter? I invited him to give proper thanks.” Father says with one eyebrow raised. He leans back in his chair and snickers “The Albanians and Italians couldn’t keep it civil for one damn night. Like animals, no discipline, no control.”
I nod, wiping the corners of my mouth with a napkin, my leg bouncing under the table. I need more information, but I can’t seem too desperate.
“It’s kind of weird, isn’t it?” Layla voices my thoughts, spreading strawberry jam on her toast like this is just another morning. “The Russians don’t even like us. Why would he agree to dinner? Scratch that, why would he help Mila at all?” She frowns. “It doesn’t make sense.”
The silence that follows is heavy. She’s right, and we all know it. I glance at Father—his forehead’s tense, that vein bulging like it always does when we start asking too many questions.
“Stop sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, little girl,” he growls, glaring at Layla. “Your job is to look pretty and sit quiet.”
I can tell he’s in one of his moods. Layla turns away, rolling her eyes, and I bite back a laugh. Father clears his throat, adjusting his Rolex. “To answer your question, idiot,” he says, his tone dripping with condescension, “they’ve probably finally figured out I had nothing to do with that fire. They want the alliance back.”
Father checks his Rolex again and then looks up. “The gowns will be here in an hour or so,” he informs us.
Layla turns back to him, giving him those wide, pleading eyes that definitely work on me, and on any person with a beating heart. “Can it please not be pumpkin orange this time? And maybe… something that actually covers more than a top?”
It’s not like this is new. Father treats us like dolls, dressing us up for every event, every business deal, and every party. He never lets us pick what we wear when it matters to him. It’s weird.
And still, despite everything—his rules, his moods, his coldness—he loves us. In his own messed-up way.
He snaps his gaze to her, jaw tight. “You’ll wear what I give you, and you’ll shut your mouth about it,” he growls, cursing under his breath. Then, with a flick of his finger, he dismisses us to our rooms.
Layla slumps back, disappointment clear on her face. I feel it too. We didn’t get any real answers, but getting anything out of him would’ve been like pulling teeth anyway.
I head to my room and start pacing. Back and forth. Over and over. Is he coming for me? Could he have realized what we had was something real, something worth rekindling? Doubt creeps in. He’s not the emotional type. He’s cunning and cold. But still—maybe?
I don’t know.
I make my way to the bathroom, digging through the drawers for that face mask Layla gave me months ago. I never bothered with it before. I fill the tub with steaming water, slather the mask on my face, and sink into the heat. I try to relax, but it’s useless. How can I relax when I know I’ll be face-to-face with the bane of my existence tonight?
I’ll have to look into those green eyes and hear his voice again. God, what if we talk? I sound pathetic, desperate, but how can I pretend he wasn’t a huge part of my life? How can I just forget him?
Sighing, I grab the razor and start shaving my legs. I finish my legs and start on my arms, then my pits. The rhythm of the razor against my skin is almost calming. Almost . My mind’s still spinning, and I can’t stop thinking about tonight, about him.
My hand lingers lower, hovering over the spot I’ve never touched with a razor before. I’ve never cared enough. But something compels me now. It’s like I need to be… different. Cleaner, more prepared, more… vulnerable. For him.
Why am I doing this? But before I can talk myself out of it, I start shaving down there too, unsure whether it’s for me or for him, or maybe both.
I rinse off, the hot water washing away the remnants of the mask and soap. My skin feels smooth and fresh. Stepping out of the tub, I grab a towel and pat myself dry. The mirror fogs up from the steam, but I wipe it clean to catch my reflection.
My skin’s paler than I remember. I barely see the sun anymore, and with winter creeping in, that’s not about to change. I trace a finger over my collarbone, then down to my breasts. They’re small, a B-cup at best. Would he like them? Probably not. Every girl I’ve seen him with has a chest twice the size of mine. I squeeze them, wondering if he’d wish they were bigger.
“Ugh!” I screech, hitting myself lightly on the forehead with my palm. Stop. That’s enough thinking about him. If he wants me, he wants me. If not, I’ll move on.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
The door bursts open, and I scramble to wrap the towel back around myself, pulling it tight. My heart jumps as Layla strolls in without a care in the world, her eyes giving me a once-over before she whistles.
“Hot lady,” she grins.
I glare at her. “Ever heard of privacy?”
She just laughs, shaking her head like I’m the ridiculous one. “You’re my sister. What privacy are you talking about?”
I sigh, rolling my eyes, but she’s already twirling around the room, her sunshine energy filling the space. “The dresses arrived,” she sings, spinning to a stop in front of me, and giving me a smile that could light up Las Vegas.
I narrow my eyes at her. “Why are you so happy?”
Layla’s smile only widens as she steps closer, her face inches from mine. Her voice drops to a whisper. “Chance of a lifetime.”
I tilt my head, confused. “What do you mean, Layla?”
She pulls back, that same smile plastered across her face. “Nothing,” she says, brushing it off like it’s no big deal, but there’s something in her eyes. Mischief.
Before I can press her, she grabs my arm and drags me toward the bed, where two dresses are laid out. Both stunning, shimmering under the soft light. She points to the one on the right. “That one’s yours.”
It’s black, long, with thin straps and a deep V-neck. The cups are draped in delicate golden chains, and the same chains hug the waist. It’s gorgeous—dangerous-looking even. The kind of dress you wear when you want to be noticed. When you want to be remembered.
I grab the dress, draping it over my body. I stand in front of the mirror, staring at the gold chains catching the light just right. Layla stands behind me, her reflection in the mirror as she watches.
“Father always gets you the best dresses,” she says, a touch of envy in her voice.
I don’t want to lie or make her feel worse, so I say, “You’re right, I’m sorry, it’s unfair… but yours is pretty too.” I glance at her red dress, equally stunning but in a more subtle way.
Layla nods, her fingers running over the fabric of her own dress. She moves to sit on the bed, her face a little more serious. “How are you feeling? You get to see your childhood friend again.”
I pause, letting out a breath. “I’m… excited, but I’m also a little nervous. Things changed.”
Layla’s hand moves to caress the red dress lying beside her, and she swallows before asking, “Do you have a crush on him or something? You blush whenever he’s mentioned.”
Her question catches me off guard, and embarrassment rushes through me. The thought of admitting I want him, only for him to reject me, feels too risky. Too painful. So I laugh, waving it off quickly. “Oh no, he’s a man-whore. I could never.”
Layla narrows her eyes at me, pressing further. “Are you sure? I could give you a couple of tips, you know I’m good with men,” she teases, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.
“I’m sure,” I reply, keeping my voice steady.
“Okay. I’m going to go get ready.” She stands up, smoothing her pants. “Do you want help with anything?”
I hesitate for a second. “Yes, actually. Can you help me curl my hair when you’re done?”
Layla grins. “Of course.” She gives me a playful wink before walking out, dress in hand.
I slip into my dress, the fabric hugging my body in all the right places. The black material makes my waist look impossibly tiny, cinching me in just right, while my hips curve out, giving me that hourglass shape I never quite see on normal days.
The deep V-neck plunges daringly low, and the thin golden chains over my chest create the illusion that my breasts are much bigger than they are. For once, I don’t feel self-conscious about my body. I can’t help but run my hands down my sides, feeling the way the fabric molds to me. It’s like the dress was made to be seen by him.
I move over to the corner where I’ve got a mess of heels. Black, nude, silver… Nothing feels right. I need something that stands out. Finally, I spot them, burgundy stilettos, six-inch heels. I slide them on, the rich color contrasting with the black dress. Perfect. I take a couple of steps, wobbling at first, nearly tripping on the edge of the rug. My heart skips a beat as I stumble, but I catch myself quickly, straightening up.
After a few more steps, I get the hang of it, walking more confidently, even if my legs are working twice as hard. Rafael is huge, towering over everyone at six foot five. Compared to him, my five-foot-four frame is tiny.
I sit at my vanity, starting with foundation, blending it in quick and smooth. I’ve done this a thousand times for endless events. Next, a sweep of blush to bring some life to my pale skin, then I move on to my eyes—smoky and dark to make my icy blue orbs stand out. Lining them with black, I smudge the corners for a sultry edge.
A quick swipe of nude lipstick finishes the look. By the time I’m done, I barely recognize myself.
Layla walks in, her eyes widening as she takes me in. “Wow,” she whispers.
“You like it?” I ask shyly.
“Like it? I love it. You look like a beauty queen.”
“Thank you,” I smile. She looks stunning too, in her red dress. “You’re even prettier,” I say honestly.
Layla grins, picking up the curling iron and motioning for me to sit at the vanity. “Sit down. Let’s make those waves happen,” she says. She starts curling my pin-straight hair, transforming it into loose waves.
Just as Layla finishes curling my hair and is puffing it out for volume, our father walks in. He stops in his tracks, staring at me as if he’s never seen me before. It feels like an eternity, and I swear I hear him whisper a curse under his breath. Finally, he shakes off whatever spell I cast on him and strides over, kissing my forehead.
“You look gorgeous,” he says. He turns to Layla. “You too.” A rush of happiness fills me as I watch my sister receive his attention as well.
He glances at the clock, and I’m baffled at how quickly time has slipped away. “He’ll be here in about an hour,” he says, and a wave of nerves crashes over me. We nod, but as he heads for the door, he turns back, his expression serious. “On your best behavior.”
Jeez. We get it Father. He certainly wants to make a good impression, well, it’s Rafael Ivanov, who doesn’t want to impress him?
I spritz perfume all over, but my hands tremble as I do it. My nerves are a tight knot in my stomach, twisting and turning. Layla must sense it because she bumps me with her shoulder, her playful smile breaking through my anxiety.
“Don’t be nervous; it’s going to be okay,” she reassures me.
I nod, but inside, I’m battling a whirlwind of emotions. I don’t just want it to be okay; I want it to be perfect—magical, even. The anticipation is almost suffocating, and I can’t shake the feeling that everything is riding on this night.