Page 70 of Inevitable Endings
Sawyer’s eyes narrow as he flips through the file. “The Odessa group is gone?”
“Multiple men,” I confirm. “No bodies, no warnings. Just… gone.” I shake my head. “I don’t know what we can trust, but Tsepov gave me this file and a name. It’s our only option right now.”
Ada sets the file down and leans back against the couch, chewing on her lip. “So, either Tsepov is playing us, or someone is trying to gut the Bratva from the inside.”
I shove another spoonful of vanilla ice cream into my mouth, the creamy sweetness barely registering as I flip through the file. The pages are weighty in my hands, each one heavy with names, grainy surveillance photos, and reports that are practically nothing and everything all at once. The words blur together, filling my mind with a buzzing static that I can’t shake.
The table is starting to look like a crime scene, except the only crime here is the sugar overdose I’m committing against my own body.
Sawyer left about an hour ago, he has got his daughter for the next two days.
Ada’s in the shower now, the sound of the running water filling the house, a constant hum that reminds me that, for a moment, at least, I’m alone with my thoughts. Just me and this pile of chaos I’m supposed to be sorting through. I stab my spoon into the second gallon of ice cream, feeling the cold like a shock through my hand. It’s numb to me now, almost like the chill in my bones has taken over.
The Odessa group is gone. Just like that. No bodies, no signs of struggle, no warnings. Just... vanished. Nothing to explain why or how. A void where they should have been, just like Aslanov.
The paranoia starts to creep in, twisting up my spine. If theycan disappear without a trace, without anyone knowing what happened, what’s to stop it from happening to me next?
Monya Kuznetsov.
The name’s bolded, underlined, the subject of the file. I scan down to the address listed beneath it:487 Briarwood Lane, Maple Hill, Pennsylvania.
Maple Hill? I blink, trying to place it in my mind. It’s not New York, that’s for sure. Too far. But Pennsylvania, just a few hours outside of the city. Long enough for it to feel like a different world, far from the city’s constant buzz.
I glance at the map. Briarwood Lane. Small, residential. Probably a quiet area, tucked away in the middle of nowhere, where no one would think to look for anything suspicious. Or maybe that’s exactly why someone would; because no one would look.
My phone lights up.
I stare at the glowing screen of my phone as it buzzes on the table, its light flickering like a warning. The name on the screen is a stark contrast to everything else in my life right now—Mom.
My heart stutters before I can control it. I haven’t spoken to her in months, not since everything that has happened, not since that night. She’s always there in the back of my mind, like a shadow I can’t shake.
I had been evading her. Dodging her calls, ignoring her texts. The thought of talking to her about the darkness that’s swallowed me whole feels like I’m walking toward a door I’m afraid to open. Not because I don’t love her, because deep down I do. I just had wished to see everything differently.
I think I’m more disappointed than anything else, hurt.
Dr. Monroe’s voice echoes in my mind, a soft, steady tone as she told me,‘‘Your trauma is not your fault, but your healing is your responsibility.’’
The phone vibrates again, pulling me from my thoughts.
MOM
I’m sorry for everything, Isabella.
My stomach tightens, but I don’t respond. The phone buzzes again, and my breath catches.
We need to talk.
My thumb hovers over the screen, my pulse quickening as another message pops up.
I have something important to tell you.
The air in the room feels thick, like I’m suffocating under the weight of confrontation. I don’t know if I can handle this, if I’m ready to face whatever the hell it is that’s been left unsaid between us.
What could she possibly have to tell me that’s important now?
I stare at the messages, her frantic attempt to reach me, and I can almost hear her voice, soft and desperate through the screen.
I can almost hear her, the guilt laced in her voice, the same tone she used when she’d tried to stitch the broken pieces of us together all those years ago.
