Page 116 of Dangerous Beginnings

Dominik nods, his body tense, and I feel the same pressure in my chest.

If Petrov is dead, it’s a convenience—but if he’s been taken, then the danger is real. And the question that haunts me now is not just where he is, but who is behind this.

I was convinced Petrov had a rat working with him, but now, it’s clear. There are more rats in the organization than I thought. Someone else is pulling the strings. And if that’s true, then this is far bigger than just Petrov.

Chapter 62

A Silent Promise

Isabella

The city pulses beneath my feet, its vibrant energy a stark contrast to the quiet isolation of the cabin. Aslanov and I walk side by side through the heart of the Russian city, the narrow streets winding with the same rhythm of old stone and cobblestones. The air is brisk, carrying the scent of roasted chestnuts and freshly bakedpiroshkifrom the nearby market stalls, where vendors shout their wares in the thick, Russian-accented chatter. The sounds of life—laughter, conversations, the occasional clink of glass—fill the space around us, but there’s an edge to it today.

Aslanov’s presence beside me feels steady, but something in his demeanor tells me he’s not at ease. His pace is deliberate, yet there’s an alertness in him that stands out. His posture is relaxed, but there’s a quiet, simmering tension just beneath the surface. He’s not looking around in panic, but his eyes flicker from one corner to the next, scanning the surrounding buildings, the clutter of people in the streets, and the dark alleyways that branch off like veins through the city. The steady hum of life here doesn’t seem to register with him; he’s always calculating, always observing.

I glance at him, trying to decipher the hard set of his jaw, and the subtle movement of his eyes as they sweep across the rooftops, never missing a detail. His head shifts, the motion barely perceptible, yet it’s as though he’s searching for threats in the shadows of this bustling city—shadows of which there are many, thanks to the long, low buildings and narrow,tightly packed streets that are so characteristic of Russia’s older districts. It’s as though the normalcy of this place—people haggling over vegetables, children running past—hasn’t reached him. Aslanov is always in motion, but never truly at ease, a man who thrives in vigilance, even in the heart of a city full of life.

He’s here—in the open, walking these crowded streets as if he belongs—but I know better. It’s still foreign to me that he can walk freely through this city, his identity cloaked and anonymous. To everyone else, he’s just another man among the masses. To me, he’s something else entirely. A devil in disguise. A devil I came to care about.

“You’re quiet,” I say, glancing up at him.

He smirks, the corner of his mouth tilting in that way that makes my chest flutter. “You’re usually the one filling the silence, solnyshko.”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the small smile that creeps onto my face. It’s true—I talk too much, especially when the quiet starts to feel heavy. But today, I notice something more. The way he moves, the way he never lets his guard down. The usual tension that coils tightly around him seems softened, but only on the surface. Beneath it, there’s something much sharper, more alert. He’s still in survival mode.

We stop at a small café tucked into the corner of a busy square. Its faded awning and mismatched chairs give it a charm that feels almost untouched by time. Aslanov holds the door open for me, but there’s something in the way he checks the street behind us before entering. He’s scanning, always scanning. Even here, in this quiet moment, he’s vigilant.

Inside, the air is warm, tinged with the rich aroma of coffee and sugar. I order something sweet—a caramel latte piled high with whipped cream—and he opts for his usual—a black coffee, strong and bitter, just like him. I settle into the chair, but I can’t shake the feeling that Aslanov is still not truly at ease. His eyesdart around the room, lingering on the door, the people, and the windows. He shifts in his seat, positioning himself at an angle that allows him to see everything and everyone. He’s aware of every possible exit, every potential threat. It’s second nature to him.

I watch him stir his coffee absently, his eyes scanning the square outside. Even in here, he’s on high alert, never fully letting his guard down.

“What are you looking for?” I ask, genuinely curious.

He glances at me, his gaze softening just a little. “Just watching. You notice a lot if you pay attention.”

I tilt my head, considering his words. “Like what?”

He leans back in his chair, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “That couple over there,” he nods toward a pair sitting by the fountain, their heads bent close together, “she’s nervous. Fidgeting with her bracelet. He’s trying to calm her, but he’s terrible at it.”

I follow his gaze, surprised by how quickly I see it too—the way her fingers twist the thin chain on her wrist, the subtle shift of his body toward hers, his hands gesturing too much as he speaks.

“You’re good at that,” I say, impressed.

“Noticing things?”

I nod.

His gaze flickers back to me, sharp and calculating, but now it feels heavier, more intense. The usual warmth in his eyes has been replaced by something cold and watchful. As if, in this moment, I’m the next thing he’s analyzing. It’s disconcerting, the way he can dissect everything around him with such precision, but it’s not just the people outside that are under his watchful eye—it’s me.

“You’re not good at hiding your tells,” he says softly, his voice low, but it carries weight.

“My tells?” I echo, my stomach tightening under his scrutiny.

He leans forward, his elbows resting on the table, his coffee forgotten. “The way you glance at the door every so often, as if you’re mapping out an escape route. How your fingers curl around the handle of your cup, not because you’re cold, but because it gives you something to do with your hands. Even the way you cross your legs, positioning yourself slightly toward the exit. You’re always ready to run, solnyshko.”

I swallow hard, feeling exposed under his gaze. “Maybe I just like to be prepared.”

“Prepared for what?” His tone is light, almost teasing, but there’s a dangerous edge to it that sends a shiver down my spine.

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