7. The Doll and the Monster Rafael
I can’t get the image out of my mind. His fingers, pressing into her arm, that grip so tight I can almost feel the marks it must have left on her skin. It’s burned there, that sight, looping back on itself in my head until it’s all I see. It’s like she is some doll he can toss around however he pleases.
My hand curls into a fist, something dangerous pulsing under my skin. It’s the kind of feeling that stays, slow-burning, consuming, demanding I do something about it. She’d looked so small beside him, her head down.
I shouldn’t be affected by her like this. By now, I should’ve been able to look right through her. But old habits die hard, don’t they? Once, when I was much younger, she was everything—my whole damn world. I’d have fought anyone, done anything for her back then. But then shit happened, and people show you what they’re really made of.
Her father, that worthless bastard, is at the top of that list. I’ll never forget the way he just…stood there, when it all went to hell that day. Bullets everywhere, hell breaking loose, and he didn’t even think to reach for her. Didn’t so much as lift a damn finger to help his own daughter.
That day, though, I didn’t see her as the woman she’s become. No, I saw her as that little girl, the one who used to follow me around, who trusted me. All I could think of was that she needed someone who’d stand in front of her when no one else would.
The office door creaks open without a knock—brave or stupid, I’ll decide in a second. Anatoly steps in, looking tense. “Pakhan,” he says, “we have an issue. Mikhail screwed up. Crossed into Albanian territory, started some shit he couldn’t finish.”
Mikhail. That little punk. I stand up from the desk. I don’t bother with many words—no one in my line of work respects words. Actions are what make the impact. “Where is he?”
“He’s hiding out at his place,” Anatoly says. “I told him to stay put until you got there.”
“Let’s go,” I say, already walking past him. The rules are simple—loyalty and intelligence. Mikhail failed at only one of those rules, and that’s the sole reason he won’t die.
Minutes later, we’re at his apartment. I don’t knock. I kick the door open with a solid crack, and it gives way. Mikhail’s inside, looking like a rat trapped in a cage, half-drunk with a bottle in his hand, wide-eyed as he stumbles back, falling over his couch.
“Pakhan, I was going to—”
“Shut up,” I snap, voice cold. I stride across the room, and he’s scrambling, knowing better than to make excuses. I grab him by the front of his shirt, hauling him to his feet. I send a fist straight into his face. He staggers, blood already dripping from his nose, but I don’t stop. Another blow lands on his ribs, then his jaw, until he’s doubled over.
“You want to be reckless?” I spit, shoving him back against the wall. “Then you answer for it. Starting wars isn’t your job. It’s mine.”
He sputters something, and I don’t care what it is. A swift kick to his chest knocks him flat to the ground.
“Next time, you get yourself into a mess like this, I won’t be the one pulling you out,” I warn.
Mikhail’s breathing is ragged, face contorted with pain, and he nods, barely holding himself together. He looks like hell. Still, he’s one of mine, and he needs to get this through his head.
“Listen to me, brat,” I growl, and he winces as I yank him close. “You’re lucky, you understand? I could’ve left you for the Albanians to tear apart. But no—” I grip his jaw, making him look me dead in the eyes, “I clean up my own messes.”
Mikhail’s eyes dart nervously, but he nods. “ Da , Pakhan. I understand.”
“Do you?” I release him, letting him stumble back. “I expect this to be your last mistake. If there is a next time, I’ll personally leave you tied up on Albanian soil. Got it?”
“ Da , da … Spasibo , Pakhan,” he mumbles, voice shaky with fear. Good. A little fear will keep him in line.
I ruffle his hair affectionately after his lesson, like I said, he’s one of mine, and I take care of what’s mine.
“Go clean up.” I order, and he rushes to the bathroom.
I turn to Anatoly, who’s been leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching silently. “Anatoly,” I say, brushing off my sleeves. “Send a ‘gift’ to the Albanians. An apology for tonight’s disturbance. Make it worth their while.”
Anatoly’s lips twist. “A shipment of our finest, da? ”
“Yeah,” I say.
Anatoly nods, already planning out the details. “I’ll add a personal note. Something along the lines of, ‘Enjoy, compliments of Bratva.’ Maybe they’ll think twice before holding a grudge.”
The car is silent on the way back, save for the hum of the engine. I could have easily annihilated the Albanians, but the way to power is picking your battles. You learn when to strike, and when to sit back and let the other fool fall first. You don’t get to where I am without learning that, and if you do, you fall, fast and hard.
I catch sight of someone on the sidewalk. My jaw clenches, and I raise a hand.
“Stop.”
Anatoly slams on the brakes, and before he can even ask why, I’m out of the car. Mila’s crouched by her bag, fumbling as face paint, brushes, and a hailstorm of glitter scatters across the ground. A ridiculous, glittery butterfly covers her face, smudged on one side. Her hands are tangled in tubes of color that keep slipping from her grip.
I stride over, kneeling next to her, gathering the spilled face paint and closing the lids of unopened glitter pots. She glances up, her eyes widening.
“Rafael…” she breathes, half in shock, her lips parting.
The sorry excuse of a guard finally realizes who’s near her and starts to approach, but I fix him with a glare so dark that his face goes pale. The coward retreats, stumbling back to watch us from a safe distance like the weakling he is.
“Why do you look like a rainbow threw up on you?” I mutter, snapping another lid in place and shoving it back into her bag.
“You should see Layla,” she says, trying to contain her laughter but failing. And as if summoned, Layla stumbles out of a nearby car, her head encased in an oversized Minnie Mouse costume. The heavy breathing is audible even from here.
“I can’t breathe! I can’t—It smells like vodka and sweat in here!” Layla shrieks, yanking off the costume head.
Mila collapses into laughter, doubling over as Layla dramatically gasps for fresh air. I reach down to pull Mila up from the ground by her armpits.
“Mila,” I growl, my hand still holding her arm firmly, “what’s going on?”
“We managed to get scheduled to cheer up the kids at the cancer center,” she says softly.
I hum, glancing over at Layla, who’s eyeing the oversized Minnie Mouse head dangling in her hands. She glances between it and me, muttering under her breath, ‘I got this. I got this…’ Then, with a determined grimace, she jams it back on her head—only to gag audibly as she inhales whatever horrors await inside. “I got this,” she repeats, struggling to keep her balance.
I feel a twitch at the corner of my mouth. I watch as Mila pulls a surgical mask over her face. It’s practical, for the kids, but it covers the lips I’d rather see. She finishes adjusting it and glances up, her eyes catching mine.
“Why don’t you come with us?” Layla says, muffled behind the massive Minnie head as she staggers over.
I look from her back to Mila. Her eyes are practically glowing as she nods, her excitement spilling over. Her smile is so wide, I almost forget who she is, and who I am. The next thing I know, I’m saying yes.
“Perfect,” Mila says, stepping closer with a paintbrush in hand, looking me over. “What are you doing?” I ask, eyeing her warily.
She shakes her head, grinning. “You can’t go looking this glum. Now—Spiderman, or Batman?”
I blink, stunned. Spiderman or Batman? I’m a six-foot-five killer, the one people cross the street to avoid. And here she is, asking me this question.
“Come on,” she insists, her voice teasing, “your call.”
I sigh, biting down a laugh. “You choose.”
“Spiderman it is.”
I crouch down so she can reach me. She leans in, fingers on my jaw, focused on painting that damn glittery spider on my cheek. Her face is so close I can feel her breath against mine.
She’s got this look of intense focus, eyes narrowed, lips slightly parted as she strokes each line of the damn thing. Soft. Delicate. Weak. Everything I can’t stand. Everything I shouldn’t crave. She’s pulling me into something I have no business wanting.
I don’t know why I let her get this close, why I’m even allowing her to do this. I’m a man who commands streets and shuts down rooms with a single look—what the hell am I doing, kneeling like this for her? She pauses, maybe to examine her handiwork, and for a split second, it feels like something dangerous. Too close, too familiar.
Then we’re inside the cancer center, and the whole scene is chaos. Layla’s a hurricane, grabbing kids left and right, swinging them around like they weigh nothing. She jumps up on tables, yells out dance moves, and blasts the music. She’s got the kids shrieking, laughing, like she’s transformed the place into some kind of nightclub for toddlers. It’s madness. There are hundreds of little hands reaching out, tugging at her, grabbing her attention like she’s some kind of goddamn star.
Mila, though—Mila sits off to the side. She’s got that calm energy, the kind that pulls people in without trying. Kids flock to her, hands outstretched, waiting for her to paint something on their skin. I watch her as she paints each one with the same concentration she used on me. My gaze lingers, longer than I want it to. It’s Mila I can’t look away from. The calm, the softness. It does something to me, something I don’t like.
I settle next to her, close enough that her soft scent pulls at me. Watching her fingers work across the kids’ small hands, I can’t help but mutter, “You’re good at this.”
A small smile pulls at her lips. We sit in silence, and I cut through it with a question I don’t even mean to ask. “Did Milos put you up to this? You know, for appearance and all.”
Her head snaps toward me so fast I almost reach out, thinking she might’ve hurt her neck. The smile vanishes, replaced with something cold and wounded. “Why? You think we’re here just to look good?”
I knew the moment I said it that I’d touched a nerve, but it’s too late now, so I don’t even try to backtrack. The words spill out before I can hold them back. “I don’t think you do a lot of things just because you want to, Mila.”
She sucks in a sharp breath, and her hand clenches, the brush stilling in her grip. “So, you think I’m just a puppet?”
My jaw tightens, and the silence stretches. I should answer, but I don’t. Can’t.
She scoffs, shaking her head. “For your information, we did this all ourselves. The planning, the costumes, the paint—every detail. My father had nothing to do with it. Sure, he’s happy it looks good, but we did it because we wanted to. And you… you just assume I’m here on his strings.”
Mila’s eyes drop to the brushes in her hand, twisting them back and forth before finally looking up at me, her expression unreadable.
“I’ll forgive you for that hurtful assumption… on one condition.”
I scoff. “I don’t need your forgiveness.”
Her hand cuts through my words, held out between us. “We become friends again,” she says, undeterred by my harshness.
I look at her small hand, waiting there as if my forgiveness were something she could bargain with. I don’t need her forgiveness. It’s not even on my radar. I didn’t say anything that wasn’t the truth, and I don’t care what she thinks of it.
Yet, before I can stop myself, my hand reaches out, and shakes hers.