9. Dinner with the DevilMila
Nine
Dinner with the Devil
Mila
I haven’t seen Rafael since last time. But we’ve been texting. Just a few words here and there—brief, never deep. I practically had to force him to give me his number, but that’s fine by me. I’m determined to have him back, in whatever way I can. He can try to keep his distance; I’ll just close it.
Sitting on the bed, I chew on my lip, tapping my fingers against my thigh. I’m so wrapped up in my own thoughts that I don’t even hear Layla come in.
She zeroes in on me right away. “Okay, what’s up? You have to tell me.”
I try to brush it off, crossing my arms. “What do you mean, ‘what’s up’? There’s nothing.”
She raises a brow, crossing her own arms right back at me. “You’re an awful liar. Spill.”
I huff, defeated. She can read me like an open book. “Fine. I need to…sneak out.”
Layla’s mouth practically falls open, and she stands there, frozen. “Close your mouth,” I mutter, “flies will get in there.”
Recovering, she crawls onto the bed, eyes wide as saucers. “You, Miss Goody Two-Shoes Mila, want to disobey Father and sneak out?”
I roll my eyes, but her expression is almost comical.
“I need to see Rafael.”
Layla’s head snaps up, her eyes going even wider, any more and they will pop out of her head. “Rafael? The Pakhan of the Russian mafia, Rafael? The Rafael that even Father trembles when he sees?”
Exasperation creeps into my tone. “No,” I spit back, “Rafael, my childhood best friend. The one that kissed my boo-boos and played hide-and-seek with me. That Rafael.”
She sighs, her face softening, then reaches over, cupping my cheeks in her hands, forcing me to meet her gaze. “Mila, that man isn’t your childhood best friend anymore.”
I shake my head. “We agreed to become friends again.”
“What?”
“Yeah,” I say. “We agreed to try again.”
Layla looks at me like I’ve completely lost it. “You know this makes no sense, right? One second, he despises us, blames Father for the fire—and the next, he wants to rekindle your friendship? What’s gotten into him?”
I hesitate, my voice dropping to a whisper as I admit my biggest wish. “Maybe…maybe he misses me as much as I miss him.”
A slight frown crosses her lips as she leans in, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek. She doesn’t even try to answer that.
“It’s his birthday, Layla.” I pull back, eyes pleading. “There’s so much I want to make up for. I need to sneak out. Will you help me? Please?”
“Fine, but don’t think for one second that this is a good idea.”
Tugging at her hair, she mumbles, “Alright, Mila. I didn’t want to say anything, but there’s a blind spot—a door at the back of the mansion. No cameras, minimal guards. But if you get caught and ruin this for me,” she growls, “I swear to God—”
“I’ll be extra careful, I promise,” I quickly cut in. “No one will see me.”
She studies me with narrowed eyes, still suspicious of this whole thing. “Fine, but you have to promise me one more thing—that you’ll stay safe.”
“I swear,” I say earnestly, squeezing her hand.
“Where are you going, anyway?” she asks.
I’m buzzing, unable to hide my excitement. “We planned to go to this really fancy dinner.”
“What if someone sees you?”
“Oh, they won’t!” I can barely contain myself. “He booked out the whole restaurant.”
“So… it’s a date.”
“No,” I insist. “Not a romantic one. Just… a platonic dinner.”
But I feel that tiny flicker in the back of my mind, the one I’ve been ignoring. Because maybe, just maybe, I wish it was romantic.
I squeal, rushing to the closet, and hauling a huge gift bag almost as tall as I am. She shakes her head. “Oh Lord, what’s in that thing?”
I shrug, grinning sheepishly. “Gifts.”
“Uh-huh,” she mutters. “How many gifts?”
“Um…fourteen years’ worth of them?” I admit, my cheeks heating up as I shift the bag to my other hand. Yes, like the pathetic girl I am, I still bought him a present every year, even when he wasn’t around. I just knew deep in my heart I will get to give them to him one day, and I was right.
She stares at me, opening and closing her mouth. It isn’t often that something shocks the words out of her. She looks away for a moment, her lips twitching as if she’s fighting a smile, then turns back, giving me a soft nudge. “You really are something, Mila. Let’s get you ready, then. We’ll make sure you look like you’re about to give the best birthday surprise of his life.”
I stand in front of the mirror after she’s done dolling me up. My dress is simple, pink, fitted, elegant without trying too hard. My makeup is simple too. I wrap my coat over my shoulders, long enough to keep the night’s chill off but loose enough so I don’t have to fight with it while carrying this massive gift bag. My fingers tighten around the bag’s handle and I catch Layla’s smirk in the mirror.
I give her a quick smile, leaning in to give her those air kisses, one on each side, feeling her light laughter against my cheek. “Thank you, Layla. For all of this.”
She waves me off. “Yeah, yeah. Go on—give him that bag of birthdays you’re hauling around.”
I grip the bag tighter. Heels in one hand, I creep down the stairs, trying not to make a single sound. The bag’s almost as big as I am, and I’m holding my breath, hoping it doesn’t topple me over right here in the stairwell.
Finally, I make it to the bottom and sneak toward the side door. My heart stops when I spot a guard outside, far enough away but close enough to notice. He’s facing away, muttering into his radio, and I take a breath, hoping I can slip by. I take my chance, feet bare on the tile as I sneak out. Cold grass hits my feet, but I can’t think about that now.
God, god, god. I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. Breaking every rule, sneaking out, disobeying the man I want nothing but to impress. But somehow, guilt isn’t even on my mind. All I can think about is Rafael.
I keep walking, the air cool against my skin. I reach the road, feeling the rough gravel dig into my toes. A cab slows as I wave it down, and I slip inside, setting the bag down carefully next to me. My head leans back, my shoulders dropping as a tiny giggle escapes.
I’m doing this. For him. I pull my coat tighter, feeling the ache in my feet, the tiny cuts stinging already. I slip my heels back on and close my eyes, trying to calm my racing heartbeat.
Tonight, none of it matters. The ache, the stinging, the guilt—it all fades away because I’m finally going to see Rafael, and it’s different than all the other times, I’m seeing him as a friend. It’s not much, but it’s something.
When I arrive, the restaurant is dark except for dim candlelight flickering across the tables, the place quiet and empty—completely ours for the night.
Rafael’s standing there, watching me with that impenetrable look. I wonder if he feels anything. The moment stretches, awkward in a way that’s almost physical, and when he finally pulls out my chair, the motion is careful, almost too polite, too gentlemanly. It’s like he’s wearing a mask, and tonight, I’m not sure which version of him I’m dealing with.
“Thanks,” I mutter, settling in. The massive gift bag sits heavy at my feet, like all fourteen years pressing down at once.
We start with sushi, both of us picking at the plates, our conversation light. My stomach twists as his gaze keeps flickering to the bag. Finally, I break the silence, setting down my chopsticks. “It’s February tenth, isn’t it?”
He just stares, his jaw flexing a little, eyes darkening as he realizes what that means. I pull out the first gift and slide it across the table, my throat tight. “Happy birthday, Rafael.”
He picks up the little red box like it might bite him. When he opens it, the tiny plastic superhero looks so absurd sitting there between us, like it doesn’t belong in his world at all. He doesn’t say anything, so I reach into the bag and pull out another—a drawing, all crooked lines and smudged crayons from when we were just kids. It’s silly, and I know that, but I place it on the table in front of him anyway.
The next gift is a smooth, painted rock I’d saved for him years ago. “For your sixteenth birthday,” I say, voice low. “You used to love collecting rocks.”
I barely get the fourth gift out before his fingers still, his mouth set in a thin, unreadable line.
“So,” he says after a moment, his voice rough, “you’ve been thinking about me all these years?”
I force myself to hold his gaze. “I tried not to, but it didn’t matter.” The words come out sharper than I mean them, it’s because I’m confessing something I’ve kept locked up far too long.
He doesn’t respond, and an uncomfortable silence stretches between us. I try to fill it, almost pushing for an answer. “Did you ever… you know… think of me?”
He doesn’t answer, just glances down, his eyes darting to his watch like he can’t wait for this to be over. “It’s late, Mila,” he mutters, as if he’s scolding me for wasting his time.
The words sting, and I swallow hard, fighting the heat building behind my eyes. “Right,” I say, standing abruptly, scraping my chair back. “Guess I’ll get out of your way then.”
He barely looks up as I turn, leaving the gifts there like abandoned pieces of a life he never wanted. I storm out, the night biting at me as I wrap my coat tighter. I’ve walked all this way for him, for nothing. My feet scream from the heels, my legs aching as I start down the steps. I stumble, catching myself on the railing.
And suddenly, he’s there, his hands rough as he catches me, steadying me before I can pull away. “Mila, stop,” he growls.
I shove at his chest, anger laced with something I don’t want to name. “Let go of me, Rafael!”
But he tuts, an infuriating sound, and lifts me, carrying me like it’s nothing, like he’s already decided I don’t get a choice in this. “Enough,” he says, voice clipped. “You’re not walking anywhere.”
“Let me go,” I murmur, but he doesn’t listen. He just sets me in his car, and the fight seeps out of me, leaving me hollow and aching.
“Drop me off before the mansion,” I manage, barely meeting his gaze. “I don’t want my father to see us.”
His eyes flash darkly, and he mutters, “Fuck your father.”
I glare at him, feeling that familiar rage coil low in my stomach. “You know what?” I snap. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe I should stay far, far away from you.”
His smirk is sharp, almost mocking as he turns to me, eyes glinting in the dark car. “But you can’t do that, Kroshka, can you?” he says, that Russian word dripping off his tongue like a taunt. “You’re tied to me, and you know it. You just can’t let go.”
The word cuts, stinging more than I want to admit. Kroshka. God knows it probably means something cruel in his language. Maybe pathetic, maybe weak. I try to breathe, try to act like it doesn’t sting, but I know he sees it. And there’s no way I’ll let him know how much it hurts, how I feel like that needy, irritating shadow that just can’t stop following him.
So I stay silent, clamping down on every feeling that threatens to spill over, gripping my hands until my knuckles turn white. I don’t look at him, don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing just how humiliated I feel right now.
When we near the mansion, I don’t wait for the car to fully stop before I reach for the door handle. Without looking back, I move further and further away from him, back to the familiarity of these walls, to the safety of home, back to where at least the pain is expected.