Page 27 of Gilded in Blood

This is the same girl who smashed a champagne bottle over a man’s head for touching her friend.

The same one who gave away an expensive designer dress to a random woman in a jail cell without hesitation. I thought that was reckless, impulsive, privileged bullshit.

But now I see it differently.

She’s not just some sheltered mafia princess causing trouble. There’s real substance here. Real empathy.

She spends her days locked in this penthouse studying criminal law and forensic psychology, then turns around and actually helps people who have been broken by men like the ones I work with.

It unsettles me more than I want to admit.

CHAPTER NINE

Kirill

“I had no idea,” I finally say.

Milana gives a small, almost sad smile. “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me, Ilya.”

She has no idea how right she is, and how wrong.

I did know. It was all in the file I received. The volunteer work, the pro bono cases, the advocacy for abuse survivors.

But I’d dismissed it the same way I dismiss most rich girls I've had to protect.

Pretty words on paper, donations to make themselves look good, charity galas where they pose for photos in designer dresses.

I assumed she just signed checks and played philanthropist for the image.

I was wrong.

The way she spoke about Maria, the passion in her voice, the way her eyes lit up when she talked about documenting trauma and fighting for protection orders… she actually cares.

She gets her hands dirty. She sits with these broken women and carries their pain with her.

She has a big heart.

She shifts on her feet, clearing her throat. “I was thinking of going out to the balcony for some fresh air. Do you want to come?”

My first instinct is to say no. I should be as far away from her as possible. Every second near her chips away at my control.

But then logic kicks in, or at least the excuse I need. It’s important we stay on the same side.

That’s a fucking lie, a voice in my head sneers. I squash it immediately. Besides, she looks… lonely.

“Sure,” I reply.

She turns and walks ahead of me toward the balcony doors. The flimsy shorts ride up with every step, giving me a perfect view of the soft, round curve of her ass.

It bounces slightly, taunting me. I clench my jaw so hard it aches. I want to tell her to go change, to put on something that doesn’t make me want to bend her over the nearest surface.

But I stay silent. Saying anything would force me to admit I’m staring at her ass like a starving man. And knowing how defiant she is, she’d call me out on it immediately and still not change.

We step out onto the balcony. The sun is just beginning to set, bathing everything in golden light.

I keep a careful distance, but my eyes are trained on her. The way the breeze plays with her hair, the smooth skin of her thighs, the way that thin top clings to her breasts.

I’m grateful she hasn’t brought up what happened in her room the other night. I feel like a coward for not addressing it myself, but what the hell am I supposed to say?