Page 106 of Dangerous Beginnings

The decaying building looms ahead, its cracked façade a silent testament to years of neglect, standing like the mouth of an old, abandoned beast. The air around it carries the scent of mildew and rust, a stench of forgotten things. I step out of the car, my shoes scraping against the uneven pavement, the sound sharp and unnatural, like a warning.

The building’s windows are dark, their glass shattered or longsince covered in grime, leaving only vague shapes of shadows behind them. The once-proud structure now sags, its bones exposed, the paint peeling like dried skin. The smell of decay hangs in the air, mingling with the faint tang of oil and the dampness seeping from the crumbling brick. There’s a weight to the atmosphere, a sense that the building is barely holding on, as if it knows its time is running out.

I walk toward the entrance, the silence pressing down on me, thick and suffocating. The door creaks ominously as I push it open, the wood groaning under the strain. Inside, the air is cooler, the smell of rot even stronger. The walls are marked by time, peeling wallpaper, and exposed, crumbling plaster, their once-vibrant colors faded into shades of grey and brown. The dim light barely penetrates the gloom, casting long, distorted shadows that cling to the corners like forgotten memories.

The building seems to hum with a quiet, uneasy energy, the kind you feel in the pit of your stomach. The floorboards creak beneath my feet, each step a reminder of the fragility around me. This place, once alive with people and purpose, now feels like a graveyard for the past. My mind, however, is far from the decay surrounding me—it’s consumed with rage, with the darkness of the task ahead, and the pulse of anger that drowns out the silence of this forsaken place.

As I stalk through the building, my steps grow heavier. Each footfall echoes in my ears like the ticking of a time bomb, waiting for something to explode. One of my trusted lieutenants has fallen into Petrov’s hands. The thought burns through me like molten lava, hot and suffocating. Petrov’s methods of persuasion are well known, and they are not the kind that leaves a man intact. He’ll torture every bit of information out of my men. Information that, if shared, could destroy everything I’ve worked for. The thought of her name—her existence—being used against me gnaws at my insides. She is my world, my everything,and if Petrov lays a finger on her…

I don’t understand how all of this is suddenly possible when we have gone a long time without any large conflicts like this. How is Petrov able to do all this…and from where? Questions gnaw at my mind.

The frustration surges again, more intense now. I need to know what happened. I need answers. I need to know where the betrayal lies. It could be anywhere. It could be someone in this very room.

My eyes scan the faces around me, but they’re all empty. I walk into the meeting room, and the air feels thicker, heavy with unspoken tension. As soon as I step in, every man in the room rises. They know. They know something’s wrong. The stench of fear is thick in the air, and it sends a chill down my spine.

I slam my fist onto the table, the force of the blow rattling the cups and papers in front of them. My voice is low but deadly. “How could this have happened?” The words burn as I say them because I already know the answer. Someone has failed me. Someone has betrayed me. “Who was with him at the event?” I demand, my eyes narrowing on the men before me.

The silence stretches painfully. One of my men, his throat visibly tightening, clears his throat and steps forward.

“Me, boss,” he says, his voice quivering. The others glance at each other, avoiding my gaze. They all know, too. Someone is hiding something.

“And you didn’t stop him?” I ask, my voice dripping with fury. “This isn’t just an attack; this is a fucking disaster. You let one of my men fall into his hands? This is serious. So, tell me, why the hell didn’t you do something?”

“No, boss,” he stammers, avoiding my eyes. I can see the sweat beading on his forehead. He’s lying. I know it. Every instinct I have is telling me that something isn’t right. “I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think?” My voice cracks like a whip as I stepforward, shoving my finger into his chest. “You didn’t think? One of my own gets snatched up, and you didn’t think to stop it? You’re either the worst liar I’ve ever met, or you’re covering for someone.”

I gesture for two of my men to grab him. They move swiftly, shoving him to the floor with brutal force. He struggles, but it’s pointless. I can already feel the room closing in on me, the walls pressing in as my mind races. There’s a rat in my business. A traitor. And traitors don’t get second chances.

I look at the others in the room. They all stare at the floor. They know how this works. They know what happens when you let someone cross the line. But they’re scared. They’ve seen me lose control before.

I pull my gun from its holster, the smooth metal cool against my palm. I don’t need to think. I don’t need to hesitate. One second, that’s all it takes. His body drops to the floor with a dull thud, lifeless. Blood spreads across the room like a sickening reminder of what happens when someone steps out of line.

There’s no noise for a moment. No one moves. The silence is suffocating.

I take a slow breath, trying to rein in the storm inside me, but I can feel the chaos building. This is only the beginning. Petrov’s actions are a catalyst, a spark in a powder keg waiting to blow. He wants a war, and I’m more than willing to oblige. But wars don’t start with grand gestures. They start with small actions, insignificant in the moment, but they ripple out in ways you can’t control.

And Petrov, by taking one more step, by fucking with my men, with my people, is going to set off a chain reaction. One that’ll burn everything to the ground.

“Fuck, clean this fucking mess,” I snap, the words biting with frustration. The bodies on the floor are a symbol of what’s coming. “And you,” I turn to Dominik, my voice low but deadly.His eyes meet mine, and I see the understanding there. He knows it’s time. Time to root out the traitor. Time to find the rat who’s been feeding information to Petrov. Time to dismantle the entire fucking network fucking me and my business. Time to end this, before it becomes something bigger.

I don’t care who it is. If they’re a threat to her, to my world, then they don’t get to live. Not anymore. There’s no room for weakness, no room for failure. I’ve seen what happens when you let your guard down, and I’ll be damned if I let Petrov or anyone else get away with this.

Isabella

The fire crackles softly, its orange glow dancing against the thick veil of night. I sit cross-legged by the edge of the fire, the warmth from the flames on my face a stark contrast to the cold that settles deep in the cabin. My fingers trace the smooth edges of my phone absently, the screen flickering with the harsh light from the fire. I glance down at the contact’s name:Mom.

It’s been weeks now. Weeks since I walked away from everything—everything I thought I knew. I left without a trace, without a goodbye. And here I am, alone in the woods with him, the man who holds my past, my present, and my future in his hands. The man who murdered my stepfather on my behalf. The man who is both my savior and my destroyer.

I can’t call her. I can’t explain where I am, what I’ve done, or how I’ve let everything spiral out of control. I can’t tell her that the man who murdered her husband—the one who has torn her life apart—is the one I’m with now, or that I’ve chosen this life, this dangerous world, willingly.

The last time I saw her, my mother was standing there, helpless, as he hit me. Her face was painted with the same look of resignation that it always had been. The look of a woman who had given up, who had accepted that her daughter was nothingmore than a casualty in her broken marriage. I stood there, frozen, watching her do nothing.

I couldn’t understand it at the time. The way she just let it happen. She never stood up for me. She never defended me. And deep down, I knew she never would. She was as much a victim of him as I was, but unlike me, she was too afraid to break free. Too weak to fight for herself—or for me.

And I will despise her for it for the rest of my life, yet I feel conflicted. Because deep down I know she is also just a victim, but she should have known better. She should have protected me; I was just a child.

He deserved it, to die. He deserved everything he got. I don’t regret what Aslanov did. If anything, it was an act of mercy, for both of us. And my mother? She deserves to feel guilty. She deserves to worry about me because she never once had the courage to protect me when it mattered most. She should feel that guilt, should feel the weight of what she allowed to happen. Because every day that I stayed, every day that I endured that house, I was waiting for something to snap.

---