Page 33 of Dangerous Beginnings

Time Reveals the Truth

3 months later

Diable

The city sprawls before me, a vast kingdom waiting to be ruled, and I revel in the familiarity of its cold embrace. I step onto the asphalt, surrounded by a legion of loyal men clad in black. The air carries a different weight here, a blend of power, authority, and the subtle scent of frost since my return. Moscow is mine, and its streets echo with whispers of Bratva’s dominance.

The first order of business is to reestablish control, to ensure that every corner of this city knows who holds the reins. Meetings are conducted, alliances forged, and rivals are reminded of the consequences of challenging my authority. The Russian mafia bends to my will, a force to be reckoned with. Yet, for the past three months as I sit in the dimly lit room, surrounded by maps and reports, her face lingers in the shadows of my mind,Isabella Marie Brown.

The numbness I welcome begins to waver, allowing the echoes of her presence to infiltrate the icy fortress I’ve built around my emotions. Images of her, of our brief encounters, flicker like ghosts in the recesses of my thoughts. I shake my head, trying to physically dispel the memories. Moscow demands my attention, and weakness has no place in the world I’ve crafted. But even as I plunge into the machinations of power, a part of me can’t shake the relentless pull of her existence.

Night after night, Moscow’s skyline becomes a canvas painted with the glow of city lights. I stand on the rooftop, a solitary figure overlooking the city that bows to my command. The bittersmile returns, bitterness filling me up every day. The Russian mafia obeys my every command, and yet, in the stillness of the night, I am haunted by the ghost of a woman who dares to defy the rules I’ve set for myself. I dive back into my habits, all negative. Not a woman comes near me, and every night when I see her face again, I down a bottle of vodka. I smoke again and spend my nights torturing the living. It’s a special occasion when there are no bloodstains on my neat black Armani suit. I delve deeper into the underworld, cementing my control with an iron fist. Moscow belongs to me.

Isabella

The hustle and bustle of New York City surrounds me, a constant reminder that life moves forward, with or without me. The city’s heartbeat pulses through its streets, indifferent to the struggles and memories that cling to me like a bloodsucker.

I have picked up the fragments of my life again for the past three months, carefully threading them together into a semblance of normalcy. The money he left me had become both a lifeline and a burden. It granted me the means to start anew.

With cautious optimism, I invested in a new apartment, one close to the heart of the city. The space was modest but felt like a safe haven. Yet, his name remained unspeakable, a forbidden utterance that I dared not whisper even in the solitude of my new abode. For the past three months, I busied myself with rebuilding, with carving out a space that felt uniquely mine, a place where his shadow couldn’t intrude.

Distraction. Life moved forward.

The city outside my window buzzes with life, and I find solace in the anonymity of the crowd. I pursued a new job, a profession far removed from the chaos of the hospital, and gradually, a semblance of normalcy crept back into my days. But I did not leave the crime side completely behind me.

I now work behind a desk, for a police department in New York. I write and analyze papers. Before I started studying in the field of healthcare I studied as an administrative assistant. My transition from the frenzied halls of the hospital to the quieter confines of the police station was abrupt, yet oddly natural. The decision to step away from healthcare wasn’t easy; after all, it had been my first choice. But there are too many memories—too many nights spent staring at the ceiling, reliving moments that haunt me. I needed a change, a way to move forward without entirely abandoning the part of me that was drawn to unraveling mysteries and finding order in chaos. When the offer came, it wasn’t what I expected.

They were desperate, they said. The department was short-staffed, and my background in both healthcare and administration made me an ideal candidate, even if the job wasn’t exactly what I had trained for. It wasn’t long before I found myself back in the thick of things, though this time with a pen in hand instead of a stethoscope.

The work is different—less visceral, less immediate—but no less important. I analyze reports, sift through evidence, and compile data that will eventually make its way into the hands of detectives and lawyers. My job is to bring clarity to the murky details of each case and to organize the chaos into something comprehensible. Some cases make my stomach turn, but it keeps me on the edge.

He piqued my interest in crime, yet I made sure to keep my mouth shut abouthim. But that did not stop my curiosity. Somehow working at a police station has made me feel safer. It’s the biggest police department in New York. Therefore, they have all sorts of files stacked in the back. And of course, my curiosity got the best of me.

At first, I waved it off. But after more weeks passed, I couldn’t help myself. I became my investigator. My pursuit of the truthbecame an obsession, fueled by a mix of fear and fascination. He became a puzzle I was determined to solve. The risk of discovery looms over me every time I open another file, but the thirst for answers pushes me further into the shadows.

Diable

I stand at the head of a long mahogany table, the room dimly lit, casting shadows on my stern face. The air is thick with tension as my trusted men gather, awaiting my commands. These men aren’t all Russian, all nationalities gather. The more, the better. It means more control in more places.

I exhale a plume of smoke, the scent of a fine cigar filling the room. “Gentlemen,” I begin, my voice low and commanding, “We have a situation that demands our immediate attention. Anton Volkov has betrayed our trust, and in our world, betrayal cannot go unpunished.”

The faces of my men remained stoic, acknowledging the severity of the matter at hand. I lean forward, my fingers steepled in front of me. Another cloud of smoke fills the room. “Volkov has jeopardized the stability of our operations. His actions pose a threat not just to me but to the very foundation of our organization. Loyalty is the bedrock of our brotherhood and betrayal stains that foundation.”

I pause, letting the weight of my words settle. The room stays silent, only broken by the occasional flicker of my cigar. “I want him dealt with swiftly and discreetly.’’ My harsh voice runs around the room.

‘’Our reputation is on the line, and I won’t allow anyone to tarnish what we’ve built. Find him and make an example. Let every soul on these streets know the cost of treachery.” My voice controls rage.

The men exchange knowing glances, their allegiance to me unwavering. One by one, they nod in silent agreement. “I don’tneed to remind you of the consequences if this is mishandled. Volkov must be erased from our world as if he never existed. Understood?”

The room fills with a chorus of affirmations, the gravity of the task at hand etched on every face. I extinguished my cigar in a crystal ashtray, a signal that the meeting had concluded. “May the shadows be in our favor, gentlemen,” I state, my eyes piercing through the darkness.

Isabella

The room fades away, and time loses its meaning as I immerse myself in the task at hand. The awareness of the risks lingers, but the compulsion to unearth the truth overshadows any rational hesitation. My fingers trace the details, hinting at a complex existence, one intertwined with danger and clandestine dealings. As I search through the labyrinthine files, my investigation takes an unexpected turn. I stumble upon a web of connections and whispers that transcend the realm of ordinary criminals. My heartbeat speeds up.

My heart pounds violently against my ribcage, a frantic drumbeat that seems to drown out all other sounds. My instincts scream at me to stop, to abandon this dangerous pursuit, and shove the secret folder back into its hidden compartment. But my hands tremble as I clutch the folder tighter, unable to pull away. The name is more than just ink on paper; it represents a living nightmare, a man who isn’t merely a shadowy figure in the criminal underworld.

Aslanov Ivanov Karamazovis the mastermind behind one of the most formidable criminal empires in existence—the Russian mafia, the Bratva.

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