Page 38 of Dangerous Beginnings

I glance at the Rolex on my wrist, the seconds ticking away, each one bringing me closer to her. The anticipation is a slow, simmering heat; a mix of cold, calculated vengeance and the primal thrill of the hunt. To hunt her—the one who dared to sniff around in the darkness where she didn’t belong. Memories of the events that led me here play on a loop in my mind, fueling the fire within.

She thinks she can hide, but the night belongs to me. And soon, so will she.

As the jet begins its descent, the cityscape of New York looms closer, the lights growing sharper—a battlefield ready to be claimed. I don a tailored black suit jacket, the fabric whispering against my skin as I adjust the cuffs with deliberate precision. The scent of my cologne mingles with the rich aroma of leather,a heady mix that only sharpens my focus.

The moment I step onto the tarmac, the crisp night air bites at my skin, invigorating me. New York’s lights reflect off the polished surface of my black-tinted Porsche, a sleek, powerful machine waiting for its master. The engine purrs to life with a touch, a dark promise of what’s to come.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, the leather molds to me, familiar and unyielding. I toss my bag onto the seat beside me, peeling off my jacket—New York’s chill is nothing compared to Moscow’s icy grip. As the engine growls beneath me, I smirk, feeling the surge of power in my hands. Let the fun begin.

Isabella

As my workday drags to an end, a gnawing dread tightens its grip around my chest. The city streets pulse with the frantic energy of people rushing to close out their day, yet with every passing minute, my nerves unravel further.

The sun dips below the horizon, its fading light casting long, eerie shadows that stretch across the bustling sidewalks. The air grows heavier, thick with an anxiety I can’t seem to shake. I’m becoming paranoid. I weave through the sea of people, every step punctuated by a glance over my shoulder. Each shadow cast by the dim streetlights feels like a harbinger of something dark lurking just out of sight. The fear of him is a bitter taste on my tongue, sharp and undeniable. The anonymity of the crowd offers no comfort, only a false sense of security. Ada’s words from earlier echo in my mind, haunting me. The images of his victims—faces twisted in terror—play over and over in my head, their silent screams a grim reminder of the path I’ve stumbled onto. My heart pounds in my chest, the sound of my heels clicking against the pavement a frantic rhythm that mirrors my growing unease.

When I finally reach my apartment building, a fleeting sense ofrelief washes over me, but it’s an illusion. The danger I fear has already slipped past my defenses and infiltrated the one place I believed to be safe. My hands tremble as I fumble with my keys, nerves stretched thin as I push open the door. The oppressive silence of my apartment greets me, thick and unnatural, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath. The door slams shut behind me with a finality that sends a jolt of fear through my spine. Throwing my coat on the ground, I barely make it to the kitchen counter before grabbing a wine glass. I fill it and take a sip, the sweet liquid burning my throat as I tie my hair up into a messy bun. The apartment is silent, save for my unsteady breathing.

My gaze suddenly lands on the counter, where only a knife and the apple’s discarded peel meet my eyes.

I did not eat an apple today.

My blood runs cold. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I become aware of another presence. I feel stomach acid rising back up my throat. It’s the familiar cologne, the minty smell combined with cigarettes and perfume.He is here.

In eerie silence, I look around the hallway. I step cautiously into the living room, scanning every shadow, every corner. The room is dimly lit, the furniture casting long, dark shapes that make my pulse quicken. I move to the kitchen, checking behind the island and inside the pantry.Nothing. The bathroom is next, and I push the door open, half-expecting to find someone lurking behind it. But it’s empty too. The silence is almost deafening, each creak of the floorboards under my feet sending shivers down my spine. I stumble as I make my way over to the bedroom.

My heart pounds louder in my ears as I approach the bedroom. The door is ajar, I push it openslowly, the hinges squeaking ominously. The room is bathed in soft moonlight filtering through the window. I check the closet, the space under the bed—everywhere someone could hide. There’s no one. I stand in the middle of the room, the silence pressing in on me from all sides.

My heart stops, and I freeze, unable to move. An eerie silent creak of the floorboards behind me.

I feel it—a presence behind me, a chilling aura that makes my skin crawl. It’s like a cold breeze sweeping through the room, prickling the back of my neck and sending shivers down my spine. My breath catches in my throat, a lump forming as I try to swallow my rising fear. I stand frozen, listening intently, my ears straining to catch any sound, any hint of movement.

The apartment seems to hold its breath with me, the silence growing thicker, more oppressive. My mind races, running through possibilities and explanations, each one more terrifying than the last. I can almost hear my heartbeat, each thud loud and heavy in the quiet room. My hands tremble slightly as I fight the urge to whirl around and confront whatever—or whoever—is there.

I take a slow, shaky breath, trying to steady myself. I feel the weight of the air, dense and foreboding, pressing down on my shoulders. My muscles tense, coiled tight like a spring ready to snap. I can sense the presence behind me, close and menacing, and my instincts scream at me to flee, to get away, but my legs refuse to move.

The seconds stretch into an eternity, the silence almost deafening now. I force myself to turn my head, just a fraction, my eyes darting to the side to catch a glimpse. Nothing. Just shadows dancing in the periphery of my vision. But the feeling doesn’t go away—in fact, it intensifies, a cold sweat breaking out on my forehead.

I am going to die of a heart attack.

Summoning every ounce of courage, I begin to turn around slowly, inch by inch, my body moving as if through molasses. My breath comes in shallow, rapid gasps, my heart hammeringagainst my ribcage. As I complete the turn, my eyes finally land onhim.

My breath hitches in my throat, suffocating me.

He is right in front of me, waiting for me—his presence dominating the room with a terrifying authority. The Head of the Bratva. My nightmare made flesh. He sits casually in my desk chair, the only movement the slow, deliberate lift of his hand as he brings a cigarette to his lips. Smoke curls through the air, a sinister tendril that snakes its way toward me, filling the room with the sharp scent of tobacco. Seconds tick by like hours. The tension is unbearable, a suffocating force that presses down on me until I think I might break under the weight of it. I don’t dare move, every instinct screaming at me to run, but my feet remain rooted to the floor. I am as far from him as I can be, yet it feels like he’s right next to me, his presence curling around me like smoke.

He’s in my apartment. The man who commands fear across continents is in my apartment, smoking a fucking cigarette like he owns the place. The black gloves on his hands—tools of control, of power—add a sinister edge to the scene, an omen of what’s to come. The cigarette glows like a dying ember, casting a dim light that barely illuminates the darkness gathering around him. My mind races, a frantic jumble of fear, regret, and a sickening sense of vulnerability. But there’s something else too, something that makes my skin prickle and my heart pound in a way that’s not entirely born of fear. A twisted excitement that coils in my gut, a dark fascination that I can’t quite banish. You fool, Isabella. Every instinct screams at me to flee, to escape this living nightmare, but my body refuses to obey. I’m trapped, held in place by the sheer force of his presence. Ada’s words echo in my mind: “Nobody knows what he looks like, and those who do… well, they’ve never lived to tell.” And now, I understand why.

I force myself to speak, my voice barely a whisper, each word trembling with the weight of my fear. “I…I didn’t mean to provoke you.” The lie is weak and pathetically transparent. We both know I’ve crossed a line I was never meant to approach. I’d been sniffing around in his business, and now I’m about to pay the price.

His voice, when it comes, is low and dangerously calm, each word laced with a thick Russian accent that drips with menace. “Are you asking for my forgiveness, solnyshko?” The nickname sends a shiver down my spine, the word echoing through me like a dark spell. I close my eyes as if shutting out the sight of him could somehow protect me from the storm gathering within. He interrupts me with a soft, almost imperceptible laugh—dark, cold, and cutting.

“Yes.” I am so incredibly screwed, and I only have myself to blame.

“Forgiveness? You think I forgive,again?” His words slice through the air, and I feel a knot tighten in my chest. He stands tall, stepping closer, his presence overwhelming, filling every inch of the room with the weight of his authority.

“You want my forgiveness?” he continues, his voice laced with contempt, the words hanging like a threat in the heavy air. “Forgiveness is a gift, a mercy. But you are not worthy of mercy, Isabella. You have proven that to me before.”

A chill races down my spine as his words sink into my skin. No matter how much I try to steady my breath, panic rises. I open my mouth to speak, to beg—anything to ease the suffocating tension—but his gaze holds me in place, pinning me as though I’ve been branded. The wall behind me is the only source of steadiness I possess.

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