Chapter 22
Chapter 22
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The next morning, the scarred man, a dignified member of the mafia, was sipping his morning coffee and listening to the birds chirping outside the window. The tree leaves reflected the sunlight, shining in a fresh spring green, breathing new energy into his day.
…That’s how it should have been. Except for the fact that his little boss, who had bolted out of the room last night like a ticking time bomb, still hadn’t come back.
‘It’s probably… fine.’
Sure, plenty of people turned into idiots over their first love. And from what he’d seen, his boss was no different. But still. The scarred man trusted the cold judgment he’d witnessed since childhood. Vladimir Yefronsky was often praised as a prepared boss, armed with top-quality training, formidable mafia skills, and the virtues of a leader.
‘So it’s fine… it’ll be fine.’
The scarred man kept repeating it. It was almost self-hypnosis.
He wouldn’t do anything stupid.
As long as he didn’t get worked up. As long as his reason stayed in control, no real problems would arise. The scarred man anxiously chewed over the face of his boss, practically an infant when it came to love. He took a sip of coffee to erase his pointless worries. Slurp.
The crema floating thick on top of his Americano was especially smooth today.
♥ ♥ ♥
The white bread tore apart mercilessly in Vladimir’s hands.
“What did you say, Milana?”
His violet eyes took on the dark red hue of blood, gleaming ominously.
‘Hurk…’
The spoon fell from Milana’s frozen hand with a clatter. The silver cutlery disappeared into the soup with a splash.
His raw mafia face had slipped out without him realizing. Seeing her alarmed reaction, the man quickly took control of his facial muscles. Nice expression. Nice expression.
“Do you… hate it that much?”
He made his voice gentle as a spring breeze. He lowered the sharp ends of his brows as much as he could and made his eyes glisten, like the maple syrup on the hotcakes Milana loved. But his insides were so churned up it didn’t have much effect.
Spring breeze, his a*s. His voice, still hoarse from the excitement of the lovemaking that had lasted until dawn, crawled out low and rough like a snake just woken from hibernation.
“Th-The photos?”
His collection, amassed over years. His desperate one-sided love, condensed into proof of obsession and affection. Rejected. Of course, he already knew that excessive collecting might not look normal to ordinary people. But he’d secretly hoped Milana, his angel, would be different. He hadn’t expected her to realize his burning heart and cry tears of emotion, confessing, ‘I liked you too.’ No, let’s be honest. He had wanted that. That ideal ending.
“I… I don’t understand why you’d go that far… I was really shocked when I saw… those…”
Not this. Not her looking at him like a pitiful sacrificial lamb on death’s doorstep.
Vladimir clutched his forehead. He’d been so sure last night. That their hearts had connected. Then Milana spoke up during their cozy breakfast after the pleasant night. And the mood plummeted into ice.
‘Vladimir, could you please take down those photos in your room? And the other things too… honestly, they really scared me…’
Those collections were like love letters to Vladimir. Each one carefully chosen and kept. And she called them scary. He was stunned.
“…So my feelings scared you.”
“How could they not be scary… We were good friends, weren’t we? Was I the only one who thought that?”
If you broke down what they actually meant, it was: ‘Are you scared of my love for you?’ and ‘We were good friends, so why do you hate me enough to do that?’ But the man was too afraid of getting hurt, and the woman was too afraid to face why he held so much malice toward her. So neither of them said the real words.
This was the result.
The warm mood from moments ago had vanished. The room fell quiet. Only the clock ticked softly, steady and low.
The brief silence became unbearable. Milana quickly spoke up.
“I… I’ve been thinking. I want things to stay the way they were. From now on too.”
“Stay the way they were…?”
“I mean, as good friends.”
To Vladimir, those were the worst words imaginable.
The bread, shredded beyond recognition, fluttered into the soup bowl. It was hard to look at Milana’s face, pleading like that. He lowered his eyes. The pain of rejection. Sadness. Betrayal. Irritation. Rage. The dark emotions surged up, swallowing his reason, dyeing his insides black with desire. Truthfully, even now he was holding back the urge to just pick up the woman in front of him and swallow her whole. He had planned it all out. Their hearts had connected. As soon as breakfast was over, back to bed. Then he’d whisper, ‘We’re lovers starting today.’ But he just sat in silence.
“Friends…”
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