Page 136 of Inevitable Endings
Aslanov never took much from the man who made him.
But this he will.
Chapter 58:
Veins of Deceit,
Threads of Truth
Isabella
The clinic doesn’t feel like a place for the living anymore.
The walls seem thinner tonight, the light grayer, the cold so deep it feels stitched into the concrete. It’s not just a building. It’s a mausoleum for the things we haven’t yet buried, rage, loyalty, debts soaked in blood.
We gather at the long, battered table that’s seen too many desperate plans scratched out under too little hope. Dominik sits at one end, a statue carved from storms and sleeplessness, his hands clasped loosely in front of him as if they’re the only thing tethering him here. Sawyer sprawls at the far side, his usual restless energy dimmed to something heavier, something lethal. Ada is beside me, the glow of her tablet washing her sharp features in cold blue, her mouth drawn tight, unreadable.
And Karpov.
Karpov slides into the last chair without a word, bringing with him the stink of the outside world, rusted metal, cigarette smoke, and a violence so old it smells almost sweet.
I asked him to come. He was the one who opened the door to the devil’s envoy for us.
Because tonight, devils are the only ones who know how to navigate hell.
For a long moment, none of us speak. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, a thin, electric whine, like the building itself is holding its breath.
Different people, yet so similar.
We have been discussing for over an hour.
We’re discussing things we think we know, and we assume we know.
‘‘I think we should involve him,’’ I suddenly say.
The words barely leave my mouth before the room turns colder. Everyone looks at me; Dominik like a man bracing for impact, like he knows what Aslanov might do, Sawyer like he’s just waiting for a reason to say no. Even Ada lifts her eyes from the tablet, her face unreadable in the pale blue glow.
‘‘He knows things we don’t,’’ I say, pushing forward before they can shut me down. ‘‘Or things we think we know but don’t. He’s stable enough. He’s ready.’’
Karpov swallows. I see the movement; stiff, uneasy. He doesn’t belong here, not really. Not with the old violence on him like a second skin. He’s spent years trying to crack Aslanov from the outside, or the Bratva in itself, scraping against locked doors, chasing ghosts. But he’s never stood in front of the man himself. Never stared into the black hole that eats weaker men alive. He has never met the man behind the reports and clues he has chased for years.
And now I’m asking him to step even closer.
Sawyer leans back in his chair, arms crossed tight over his chest, his jaw grinding. ‘‘I don’t like it,’’ he says. His voice is a low scrape against the cold air. ‘‘He’s a live wire. He could snap.’’
I don’t argue. I just look at him and ask, ‘‘Does keeping him restrained make you feel better?’’
He doesn’t even hesitate. ‘‘Yes. Absolutely. That isn’t even optional.’’
I nod, once, deliberate. No judgment. I understand him, Iunderstand his side.
‘‘Then can he join?’’ I ask. ‘‘Are we ready to hear his side?’’
Behind me, I can hear Aslanov’s steps, quieter, heavier, following close to my shorter frame.
I don’t look back.
I don’t need to. I can feel him there, solid and silent, a pressure at my back like a gathering storm.
