Page 86 of Dangerous Beginnings

I signal my men to pull him up again, he gasps for air.

“Please, I swear—” I move my finger forward again, and they dip him back into the tank again. He thrashes around but it’s of no use. Again, he comes back up gasping for air, silence. He doesn’t utter a word of useful information. I hold my hand, telling them to stop. I mention towards the table, it’s time for more brutal action. My expression remains stoic, betraying none of the turmoil churning inside me.

With a subtle nod, I signal for them to begin, knowing that we need answers, and we need them now. The first man steps forward with the rope, binding the man’s wrists to the table. The sound of the man’s cries fills the room as the wire cuts into his flesh, each screams a stark reminder of the lengths we’re willing to go to for information. But still, he remains defiant, refusing to break under the pressure. With each passing moment, my frustration grows, my anger bubbling beneath the surface.

Finally, I step forward, locking eyes with him myself. “You have one last chance to cooperate,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper but laced with menace. He grits his teeth. I sigh before getting out a knife and with one swift motion, I cut off his left ring finger. He screams in agony; it hurts my fucking ears. I don’t even bother to ask again as my blade already finds its way to his middle finger, cutting through the flesh.

“Stop, stop!” He screams, pleads, and begs. But I’m not stopping until I hear what I want to hear. I place the blade on his thumb.

“He’s away on a business trip!” the man suddenly shouts while heavily panicking. I stop the blade right on his flesh, a little blood dripping down. I gesture for him to continue. “He’s back in a week. He stays in Sochi, the North.” He breathes in defiance. An eerie smile creeps its way up on my lips.

“Very well,” I say, removing the blade from his finger. Bloodstains the floor.

It’s going to take a while for him to bleed out, so I signal to my men to put him out of his misery. Leaving the man, I turn and make my way back upstairs, and just as I want to close the door a gunshot is fired. Despite the information we’ve obtained, a sense of unease lingers within me. Something tells me this isn’t going to be an easy task. However tonight there is going to be another task at hand. Or maybe even two more. First getting rid of the source of her nightmares, and second, getting her to trust me with them.

Isabella

He’s home, I stayed home. I roam around the house and bake some cookies. The house smells like them, and just as I thought my peace couldn’t be disturbed, he’s home. With bloodstains on his suit, he doesn’t look pleased. I swallow and stop dead in my tracks as he slams the door shut. Just a little bit of light shines through the windows, it’s nearly dark already here. His eyes meet mine as he drops his coat onto the chair next to the door.

As his eyes lock onto mine, a chill runs down my spine, and I instinctively take a step back, my heart pounding in my chest. The air in the room feels heavy with tension, thick with unspoken words and hidden emotions. Without a word, he begins to remove his bloodstained coat, the fabric rustling softly as it falls to the floor. The sound echoes in the silence.

I stand there, rooted to the spot, unsure of what to do or say. His presence fills the room, commanding and imposing, casting a shadow over everything it touches.

And then, with a heavy sigh, he finally speaks, his voice low and gravelly, cutting through the silence like a knife.

“Isabella,” he says, his tone laced with a mixture of exhaustion and frustration. “Don’t ask me where I’ve been or what I’ve done.”

I swallow, “Why?”

“Because I will tell you the truth and you don’t want to hear it, believe me.” He groans as he rolls up his sleeves, revealing his toned arms. I nod. He’s right. I don’t.

As he enters the kitchen, his gaze falls upon the freshly baked cookies, a small glimmer of surprise flickering across his features before being replaced by a more subdued expression. Without a word, he begins to move about the kitchen, the familiar rhythm of cooking a comforting distraction from the heavy tension he brings. Something is up. His demeanor has shifted. I watch him silently.

As he works, he glances over at me, his eyes softening with a hint of concern.

“Have you eaten enough today?” he asks, his voice gentle yet firm. I nod, offering him a small smile in response.

“Yeah,” I reply.

He nods, his expression hardens again as he continues to cook, the silence between us filled only by the sizzle of food in the pan and the occasional clatter of utensils against the countertop.

As we sit down to dinner, a quiet tension hangs in the air, overshadowing the warmth of the meal before us. I pick at my food, unable to shake the unease that settles in the pit of my stomach. He seems to notice.

He watches me quietly, his gaze penetrating as if searching for something beneath the surface.

“Eat your plate,” he says, his voice kind yet commanding. I nod, obediently taking a bite of my food, though my appetite has all but vanished under the weight of his words. The silence between us stretches, filled only by the clinking of utensils against plates and the distant hum of the city outside. Finally, as I push aside the remnants of my meal, he speaks, his voice solemn and measured.

“I haven’t been completely honest about something,” he says,his words hanging in the air like a heavy cloud. My heart skips a beat, and I turn to face him, a sense of dread settling over me like a suffocating blanket.

“What do you mean?” I ask, my voice trembling with a mixture of fear and anticipation. He takes a deep breath, his expression grave.

“Finish your plate and I’ll show you.” His words hang in the air, heavy with a sense of foreboding. I nod slowly, my appetite forgotten as I push aside the remnants of my meal. After finishing my plate, I put on some sneakers and a jacket, and so did Aslanov.

Aslanov leads me down into the forest next to the house. We get in deeper and deeper until we reach a shed, opening the door and it’s freezing. There is another door, leading to a staircase descending into darkness. Fear grips my throat. My instincts scream at me to turn back. I hesitate, lingering at the threshold as he gestures for me to enter first. But something inside me recoils at the idea, a voice of caution whispering in the back of my mind. I can’t shake the feeling of unease that grips me, nor the nagging sense that I’m walking into a trap.

“I... I don’t think I should go in first,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper, but firm in its conviction. “This doesn’t feel good.” I stare at the pitch-black staircase. His expression remains impassive, but I can see a flicker of honesty in his eyes.

“There’s nothing to fear,” he assures me, his tone stern but gentle. “I promise you, Isabella,” he says, his voice soft yet firm, “I would never harm you in any way.” His words carry a weight of sincerity that’s hard to ignore, and for a fleeting moment, I find myself wanting to believe him. But the memories of past betrayals and broken promises linger in the back of my mind, casting a shadow of doubt over his assurances. Aslanov reaches into his pocket and gives me a key, the key to the shed. He goes in first. He looks back over his shoulder, at me.

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