Page 75 of Inevitable Endings
I force my expression into careful neutrality, but he sees it; the flicker of something in my eyes.
Satisfaction curls at the edge of his lips. “Now,” he says, straightening, “I need more.”
Of course he does.
I am going to lose everything, as long as it’s not her – I don’t even care anymore.
Nick reaches into his coat pocket, retrieving a cigarette with the kind of ease that comes from habit. He taps it against his knuckle once before slipping it between his lips. Then, slowly, deliberately, he pulls out a lighter, a sleek, silver thing that catches the faint glow of the city beyond.
Click.
The flame flickers to life, casting sharp shadows across his face.
I exhale slowly, the movement making my ribs scream in protest. “You already have two foundations,” I rasp. “What else could you possibly want?”
Nick watches me, his dark eyes unreadable. “The heart, and you know it.”
“But I don’t want the heart justyet,” he murmurs, tapping ash from his cigarette. “Not before I tear through everything holding it up.” His dark eyes lock onto mine. “I need a place, Aslanov. A gathering point. A warehouse, a club, somewhere the mid-level players meet. The ones who keep the wheels turning. The ones who whisper the orders before they reach the streets.”
I stay silent.
Nick clicks his tongue. “You want me to start guessing? Fine. Maybe it’s a bar in Brooklyn, tucked behind some sad little front business. Or maybe it’s a strip club in Queens where the right men sit in the back room while everyone else drowns in cheap liquor.” His gaze sharpens. “Or maybe, just maybe, it’s a warehouse. One that isn’t just used for shipments, but for business. The kind of place where favors are traded like currency.”
I feel the muscles in my jaw tighten, and Nick sees it. His mouth curves into something resembling amusement.
“Ah,” he says softly. “That one.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, forcing myself not to react further.
Nick flicks his cigarette to the ground, crushing the ember under his boot. “Tell me where.”
The words come out hoarse, torn from my throat like glass dragging through flesh. “Dockside. Off Gowanus. The old cannery warehouse.” I exhale slowly, my ribs screaming with every movement. “You’ll find them there. Mid-rankers. Deal-brokers. Men who move the pieces before the real players ever take the board.” I pause, watching his expression. “You’re getting close.”
Nick tilts his head, considering. “Closer than you’d like.”
“Who’s their bridge?”
I swallow, jaw tightening against the ache, then finally let the name slip past my lips, ‘‘Monya Kuznetsov.’’
Nick immediately snaps his fingers to another masked man in the corner, ‘‘Get going.’’
Fuck.
He already has the foundation. Now he has the second step, access to the men who make the Bratva function from the shadows. The step before the final one. The Vor v Zakone. The heart.
I see it in his eyes. He’s nearly there, and whoever supports him.
Nick lets a beat of silence pass before he nods, a decision made. “Guards.”
Heavy boots scuff against concrete. Rough hands grab my arms.
“For once,” Nick muses, “I’ll be generous.”
A strip of cloth is pulled over my eyes, cutting out the dim glow of the overhead lights. My body tenses, expecting the sharp bite of a blade, the electric snap of a cattle prod. Instead, there’s movement. They’re dragging me forward, but it’s different this time. The air shifts. No longer thick with blood and damp, rotting walls. Something else fills my lungs—cooler, crisper.
Fresh air.
I hold my breath.
