28. Buried Secrets Mila
T he kitchen smells like burnt batter and desperation. I stand at the stove, oversized sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder, trying to salvage what’s left of my so-called pancakes. The batter is bubbling unevenly in the pan, edges blackened, and I know deep down this is a lost cause. Still, I flip it, watching as another pancake meets its untimely end.
I hear him before I see him, the sound of his heavy steps entering the kitchen. Rafael leans against the doorway, his eyes scanning me with that sharp, assessing look he always has.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” I snap back, poking at the pancake as if intimidation will save it.
“It looks like you’re butchering some pancakes.”
“Ha ha. Very funny.” I roll my eyes, lifting the pancake from the pan and adding it to the plate of previous disasters. They’re all misshapen, charred, or somehow undercooked at the same time.
“Where’s Nadia and the others?” he asks, crossing his arms.
“It’s Sunday,” I say, focusing on pouring the last of the batter. “I asked them to take the day off.”
“Why?”
“Why?” I echo, turning to glare at him. “Because not everyone’s a robot like you, Rafael. They deserve a break.”
He raises a brow, but I ignore him as the pancake starts to smoke. “Shit,” I mutter, quickly flipping it, only to find it’s beyond saving. Fantastic.
I scrape it onto the plate with the rest, then set the table with everything I’ve prepared: a jug of fresh orange juice, a plate of horribly chopped fruit, and the pile of pancakes I’m sure taste better than they look. Or maybe not.
“Don’t judge,” I warn him as I place the last item on the table.
He doesn’t say anything, just watches as I sit down and wave him over. “Sit,” I mutter, gesturing to the chair across from me.
He pulls it out and sits. I stack a few pancakes onto a plate for him, adding some fruit and pouring him a glass of juice. Sliding the plate across the table, I fold my hands in my lap and watch.
It’s not because I think he’ll choke, or because I somehow suspect I’ve created homemade poison. No, definitely not that.
He takes a bite, chews once, then swallows. He goes for another, and I blink.
“It’s good. Thank you,” he says simply, already cutting into the next piece.
I narrow my eyes at him. He’s lying. He has to be. I take a pancake, place it on my plate, and cut off a small piece. The moment it hits my tongue, I freeze.
Good God. It’s bitter . And salty. How is that even possible? My face contorts as I spit it into a napkin, glancing up to find Rafael watching me with faint amusement, still eating like nothing’s wrong.
“How are you eating that?” I ask, horrified.
He shrugs, not even pausing between bites. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s good.”
I stare at him like he’s lost his mind. Either he’s lying to spare my feelings, or he’s an alien who doesn’t taste food like the rest of us.
I settle for picking at the fruit, trying to ignore the bitter aftertaste of my pancake disaster. I glance at him, his broad frame hunched slightly as he devours another pancake, and something about the ease of it—this shared moment—makes me pause.
“I’m going to fetch something,” I say, standing and leaving the kitchen before he can respond.
In the bedroom, I open the drawer and pull out the small velvet box. When I return to the table, I sit down and slide the box across to him.
“What’s this?”
“Your wedding ring,” I answer back, sipping my juice like this isn’t a whole thing.
“A ring?” He says the word like it’s an alien concept, his brow furrowing as he picks up the box. “I don’t wear jewelry.”
I place my glass down. “Well,” I say with a casual shrug, “if you want this rock to stay on my finger”—I lift my hand, the massive diamond catching the morning light—“then you wear the ring.”
“Mila,” he warns, his voice dropping into that tone that makes most people back down.
“Rafael,” I shoot back, matching his tone, refusing to budge. “I’m negotiating.”
He sighs before flipping open the box. The silver band glints against the velvet, and he hesitates for just a second before sliding it onto his finger.
“There,” he says, holding up his hand briefly like it’s a chore he’s completed.
“The moment you remove it,” I sing-song, smirking as I pick up another piece of fruit, “so do I.”
He glares at me, but there’s no real heat behind it. Instead of responding, he stuffs another bite of pancake into his mouth.
I grin to myself, biting into a strawberry, knowing I’ve won this round.
“Oh, I’m going to my father’s place today.” I drop the words casually, like they’re not a loaded grenade in the room.
Rafael freezes mid-chew, his eyes snapping to mine. “Hell. No.”
I brace myself.
“If it’s to see Layla, you bring her here. You are not going there,” he growls.
“Look, Rafael.” I force calm into my voice. “I’m not pretending I don’t understand where you’re coming from, but I have to go. There’s still some stuff there I need to move here.”
“What stuff?”
“Clothes. Jewelry.”
“You have the card. Buy everything you need. Don’t take anything from there.”
“No, Rafael. I’m not going to let him stand in the way of things I want to do ever again—even if it’s just clothes.”
“Then let me take you.”
The thought sends a shiver down my spine. “No. Please, no,” I say quickly. His eyes narrow, reading too much into my reaction, so I rush to explain. “Father hasn’t been… mentally stable lately. I don’t want to agitate him.”
“Not because I’m scared of him,” I add firmly, “but because I don’t want him taking it out on Layla. Please.”
I stand and move closer, taking his hand in mine. His fingers are stiff at first, but I hold on. “I’ll take Ivan and Arkadi with me,” I promise. “And whoever else you want.”
“No.”
I cup his face, forcing him to look at me. “You told me I just needed to inform you, not ask for permission,” I remind him.
“And I told you I won’t let you put yourself in danger,” he spits back.
“What danger, Rafael?” My voice rises a little, my frustration matching his. “The guards there are already loyal to you. I’ll be taking your men with me. There is no danger. Please.”
He glares at me for a long moment, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. Then his hand reaches out, fingers grazing my bottom lip. He tugs gently at the pout I didn’t realize I was wearing.
“Fine, just don’t pout.”
Something softens in my chest at the gesture, but I refuse to acknowledge it.
“You take six guards with you,” he hisses.
I nod at the unreasonable request. “Deal.”
I slide into the back seat of the car after I finish getting ready. Ivan is in the driver’s seat, Arkadi riding shotgun, and two other cars with Rafael’s men follow us.
When we pull up to the gates, I look at the mansion that once felt so large and untouchable. It looms cold and empty now, every stone mocking me for the years I spent convincing myself it was ever warm. The warmth had never been real—it was a delusion I built for myself.
One of the guards opens the gates, another nodding at Ivan to let us through. My pulse thrums harder as we pull in. The car stops, and I step out, the chill of the past pressing against my skin.
The front door creaks as it opens, and there he is—my father. His sneer is as sharp as ever, cutting through me. “You sure look happy,” he spits, his lip curling in disdain. “Is he treating you better than I did?”
I clench my fists, my nails biting into my palms. “Nice to see you, Father,” I lie.
“What brings you here? Not here to see me, of course. Unbelievable. Ungrateful little brat.”
“I’m here to get the rest of my things,” I say flatly, stepping past him.
As I move, his hand reaches out, but before he can touch me, Ivan’s iron grip clamps down on his wrist. “Don’t even think about it,” Ivan growls.
My father yanks his arm back, cursing under his breath, but he doesn’t try again. I climb the stairs. The sound of a door slamming echoes, and I know he’s followed me up.
I peek into Layla’s room to say hi, but she isn’t there. I’m bummed, I really wanted to see her. In my old room, everything feels smaller. The bed, the walls, the memories—they suffocate me. I grab a suitcase, standing on my tiptoes to reach it from the closet’s top shelf. My hand brushes against something that doesn’t belong.
I freeze. My fingers trace it carefully, and when I pull it down, my breath hitches.
A camera. A fucking camera.
My blood turns ice cold, my heart hammering in my chest. How long has this been here? My mind spirals.
“Ivan,” I call out, unnaturally calm. “Please throw everything in the closet into the bag, can you?”
He nods, stepping into the room, and I step out. Needing air.
Somehow, my feet lead me to his office door. I don’t know why I stop there. I don’t even know what I think I’ll do. But then I hear him.
“Yeah, they’re just like their mother,” he says, his tone bitter, venomous. “Think they’re better than me.”
I press my ear to the door, my blood roaring in my ears.
“That motherfucker has her now, but I would’ve preferred her untouched. I was so damn close… then that bastard swept in.”
My stomach churns, bile rising in my throat.
“No, no, of course, I’ll get her eventually,” he continues with twisted amusement. “No way he’s going to keep her locked down forever. The honeymoon phase will wear off. And when it does, maybe he’ll even send her back to me himself.”
“She’ll end up just like her mother. Buried in the backyard.” His laughter is maniacal, the kind that echoes in nightmares. “I thought she was different, thought she deserved better. But no, she’ll get the same—a rough fuck, and a bullet straight to the head.”
I don’t know how long I stand there, rooted to the spot, my hands cold and shaking. But when I move, something in me shifts. Whatever fear I had left is gone, replaced by a searing, unrelenting rage.
I run, my feet pounding against the stone path leading to the backyard. My chest feels like it’s about to explode, but I keep moving, my mind screaming louder than my body’s protests.
“Mrs. Ivanov!” Arkadi calls out, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.
The fountain comes into view, the one I spent all my time at. The memories come rushing in—my mother’s laugh, her hands smoothing my hair as I sat by the water, her soft voice telling me everything would be okay.
I drop to my knees beside the fountain, the dirt cold and damp beneath me. My hands claw at the ground, ripping at the plants and the soil like a woman possessed. Nails break, dirt embeds itself into my skin, but I don’t care. I dig harder, faster, the world narrowing to this one spot.
“Mrs. Ivanov…” Arkadi’s voice is softer now, but it grates against my nerves.
“Shut up!” I scream. “Shut up! Just shut the fuck up!”
I hear him move behind me, but I don’t look back. I can’t. My hands keep clawing at the earth, and then I feel him kneel beside me.
I glance at him, his face unreadable, but his hands already digging into the dirt next to mine. He doesn’t ask, doesn’t question, just starts working.
A lump forms in my throat. He doesn’t even know what I’m doing. But he’s here, helping me anyway.
His hands are bigger, faster, tearing through the earth with brutal efficiency, but it’s me—it’s my hands—that pull something free first. My breath catches as I stare at the skeletal hand in my grip, the bones brittle and fragmented. A ring still clings to one of the fingers. Her wedding ring.
I scream.
It’s guttural, feral, tearing out of me with such force that my throat feels like it’s ripping apart. My vision blurs, my body trembling uncontrollably.
Arkadi’s face darkens, his jaw tightening, but he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t even take the hand from me. Instead, he keeps digging.
And then the rest of her emerges. The skeleton of the woman who gave me life.
But it’s not just her body.
Photographs. Dozens of them, tucked into the dirt like some sick offering. I freeze, staring at the images scattered among the bones. I don’t want to look. I have to look.
My stomach twists violently as I pick one up. It’s me. Young. Vulnerable. Naked. The pictures were all taken without my knowledge. There are ones of me showering, peeing, and getting dressed.
Everything clicks.
My hands tremble as I clutch the photo, bile rising in my throat. She knew. My mother knew. She found out about him—about what he was, what he did. She found the photos. And she didn’t stay silent. She would never stay silent.
That’s why she died. She didn’t run. She didn’t abandon me. She fucking died protecting me.
The scream tears out of me again, raw and animalistic, as the truth crashes over me. I claw at the photos, desperate to hide them, to shove them back into the dirt where no one will ever see them again.
“Don’t look!” I sob, my dirty hands flying to Arkadi’s eyes. “Don’t fucking look! Don’t—”
“Mila,” he says quietly as he pulls my hands away. “I’m not looking, I promise. You shouldn’t either.”
I shake my head violently, trying to block his view again, but he’s already collecting the photos.
“I’ll burn them,” he says, pulling out his lighter. I watch, frozen, as he sets the photos ablaze. The fire devours them, turning the images to ash in seconds.
My hands move on their own, cupping the skeleton’s skull. The bone is cold, so cold.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “I’m so, so sorry.”
I can’t stop the tears from spilling. Her cold, skeletal face stares back at me, and I press my forehead against it, my sobs choking me.
Arkadi stays silent, the fire still crackling beside us. He doesn’t touch me, doesn’t say a word. But he stays. And somehow, that’s enough.
Everything I touch turns to ash. I ruin everything. Every breath I take feels like it pulls the light from the world, leaving only darkness in my wake. I am destruction wrapped in human skin, a demon wearing a human mask. The people I care about—I bring them nothing but pain, nothing but agony. My mother’s life was stolen because of me. Layla never had a normal childhood because of me. And Rafael… God, Rafael. I even hurt him.
I feel the weight of Arkadi’s jacket settle over my trembling shoulders. The warmth of it is jarring against my skin. It’s an act of kindness I don’t deserve.
My eyes fall to the gun holstered at his side. Without thinking, my hand reaches out, my fingers brushing against the cold metal.
His hand snaps to mine, firm but not harsh, stopping me before I can grab it.
“Arkadi, I need your gun.”
He doesn’t release me.
“Arkadi,” I hiss. “That’s an order.”
Still, he doesn’t budge.
“I’m not going to hurt myself,” I bite out in desperation. “I swear to God, it’s not for me.”
His grip tightens for a moment, and I can see the conflict in his eyes. I want to scream at him, but I don’t. Instead, I plead.
“Let Pakhan do it for you,” he says softly, almost like he’s begging me. “Please. He would be pissed if I let you do this. At least let me do it for you.”
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “I need to do it myself.”
His shoulders sag slightly, as if he understands. He releases my hands slowly, then pulls the gun from its holster. His movements are hesitant, almost reluctant, as he presses it into my shaking hands.
“Pakhan’s going to kill me,” he mutters.
I stand, my legs unsteady beneath me, the weight of the gun unfamiliar but grounding in my palm. My knees buckle, and I drop back down into the dirt. The humiliation burns, but I push through it. I force myself to rise again, my body swaying as I take one step forward. Then another.
The mansion looms ahead of me, every step drawing me closer to the man who deserves this more than anyone. My own father. The sad excuse of a man who created this hell.
I storm into the office, my body covered in dirt, mud, grime, and my own fucking tears. He’s sitting behind his desk, and the moment he sees me, he bursts into manic laughter, like some deranged animal.
“You’ve finally found your mother,” he sneers. His amputated hand points at me, bloodstained and still disgusting, even in its mutilated state. “Congrats. How was the reunion?”
I don’t answer. The words die in my throat as I take a step forward. Arkadi moves past me, grabbing my father and pinning him to the chair. Ivan follows quickly, both of them holding him down. Ivan looks confused, but he helps Arkadi and me despite that. I don’t want their help, not really, but I know they won’t let him get away.
I pull the safety off the gun, the metallic click loud in the silence that follows. My breath is coming too fast, too ragged, but I keep my eyes on him.
“You made me a murderer at nine years old,” I confront him. “You took my soul and twisted it until I couldn’t recognize it. And now… now you’re going to make me one again.”
He grins. That sick, twisted grin. “You’re just like me, you know? I’ve always known it. You’re a demon too. It runs in the blood.”
“You preyed on me,” I shout. “You killed my mother. You’re everything that’s wrong with this world. How could you do this to me?”
“Because I knew you were just like me, little girl,” he spits with venom. “You were always my greatest achievement. You’re not a victim—you’re just a reflection of me, a fucking monster in disguise.”
I don’t back down.
His head tilts as if he’s about to reveal some great truth. “Can I tell you my biggest regret?” His voice is low, almost tender, like he’s confessing some great sin. “I didn’t fuck you before I die.”
I want to wither away, but my body reacts before my mind can catch up. Without thinking, without hesitation, I pull the trigger.
The sound of the gunshot is deafening. The bullet rips through his skull, and I watch as his head explodes in a spray of blood, brain matter, and bone fragments.
His body jerks violently, the chair toppling backward. The floor is stained with his blood, pooling beneath him as pieces of his skull scatter across the room. The sight is so visceral, so brutal, that I can’t breathe. I can’t look away. I don’t want to look away.
Arkadi’s hands are still on him, holding him down as his body twitches. Ivan steps back, staring at the mess like he’s trying to process what just happened. But I don’t care. I don’t care about the blood, the gore, the sickening spray that covers the walls. I just care that he’s gone. Finally.
“I hate you,” I whisper, the words barely escaping my lips.