Page 17 of Inevitable Endings
Aslanov
The room is cold. Not the kind of cold that bites at the skin, but the kind that seeps deep into the bones, making a home there. The air is thick with the sharp tang of metal, sweat, and something more primal, fear, pain. The scent of past suffering never truly fades in places like this.
I’m still in the chair, chains biting into my wrists, my ankles locked down. My body is wrecked, muscles stiff and aching, but I keep my spine straight, my head held high. I won’t give him the pleasure of seeing me weak.
He wants more information, more details.
Nick stands in front of me, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He’s patient, but that patience has a limit. I’ve tested it too much already.
“You better stop playing games, Aslanov,’’ he murmurs, his voice dangerously soft.
I say nothing. I have already given him breadcrumbs; just enough to keep Isabella safe for now. But it’s not enough for him. He wants more.
He sighs, tilting his head as if he’s disappointed. “You really think this is going to end well for you?’’ His fingers trail over the steel tray beside him, lined with an array of tools. Not crude instruments of pain, but precise ones. Scalpel-sharp. Designed for prolonged suffering, not quick agony.
He picks up a syringe. Holds it between two fingers like it’s nothing. “Do you know what this is?’’ he asks conversationally. He doesn’t wait for an answer. “This is a nerve agent. Something special, something that doesn’t kill you, no, that would be too easy. It only amplifies pain. Every touch, every movement… excruciating. A whisper of wind against your skin will feel like fire peeling away your flesh.’’
I stare at him, expression blank. I’ve seen this story before, I have used this on multiple men myself.
Nick steps closer, rolling up my sleeve with the care of a doctor before pressing the needle into my forearm. The liquid burns as it seeps in, a slow crawl of fire through my veins.
‘‘See, Aslanov,’’ Nick muses, watching as my body stiffens, ‘‘breaking a man isn’t about brute force. It’s about precision. About stripping him down piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but the truth he’s trying so hard to bury. Unlike your methods, I like to be more precise, less bloody.’’
The effects start slow. A tingling under my skin, like a thousand needles dragging just beneath the surface. Then it grows. Expands. My nerve endings ignite, as if every inch of my body is being flayed open from the inside.
Nick doesn’t move. He simply watches. Observing. Studying.
“Tell me about the Bratva,’’ he says, his voice calm, almost gentle. “Tell me about your safe houses. The men who will fight for you. The ones who won’t.’’
I grind my teeth, forcing the pain to the back of my mind.
Nick nods to one of his men, who steps forward with something in his hands. A metal rod, heated until it glows a sickly orange. He doesn’t hesitate. He presses it against the inside of my forearm.
White-hot agony explodes through me. My muscles seize, my body jerking violently against the restraints. But I don’t scream. I won’t give him that.
Nick exhales slowly. ‘‘Stubborn,’’ he murmurs. ‘‘But you’ll talk.”
The guard pulls the rod away, the scent of scorched flesh curling into the air. I force my breathing to steady, my vision swimming.
Nick crouches in front of me, his face level with mine. ‘‘You have a choice, Aslanov. You can let this continue. You can let me peel away your strength piece by piece until there’s nothing left. Or you can start talking.’’
He knows I will, for her. Yet, he still decides to torture me physically too. I exhale, slow. My body is on fire, but my mind is clear. I know the game. I know my limits. I know his.
“There’s a stash house in Izmaylovsky Park,” I mutter, my voice hoarse, the weight of the words pressing against me. “Some of my men are stationed there. Not all of them, just a few.”
Nick’s gaze sharpens, a flicker of recognition flashing across his face. He knows the place. Izmaylovo. The historical heart of Bratva influence in Moscow, rife with organized crime, racketeering, and illicit deals that run through its veins. He knows the reputation that area holds, even now, despite the law’s tightening grip on the underworld.
Another pause. “Taganskaya, too,” I add, almost without thinking. “Where it all started for some of us.”
Nick doesn’t flinch. He knows those names, those places. It’s enough. He knows it’s just a small section of the entire empire, but it’s enough for now. Enough to keep me alive.
He stands, stretching like this is just another day for him. “Good,’’ he says simply. “But not good enough. We’ll continue this tomorrow. I want to know where I can find your closest men.’’
I manage to lift my head, jaw clenched, blood drying at the corner of my mouth. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” Irasp, my voice low but burning with venom. Nick doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. He just stares, lips curled into the faintest smirk, eyes dark and empty; like he’s already watching my grave being filled.
He walks to the door, pausing with his hand on the frame. “Get some rest, Aslanov,’’ he says over his shoulder. “You’ll need it.’’
The guards don’t bother with words. They grab me roughly by the arms, yanking me from the chair and dragging me down the narrow hallway, the sound of my feet scraping against the cold concrete floor echoing like a death march. Every step feels like a punishment, a reminder of the brutality I’ve endured and what’s still to come. The pain from the nerve agent still pulses through my body, a constant, gnawing ache that no amount of will can push away.
