Page 82 of Inevitable Endings
I tilt my head slightly, eyes still locked on his. “Is that so?”
His lips curl slightly, that same smirk playing at the edge of his mouth. “Power doesn’t slip away easily when it’s earned, and I’ve earned mine. Those men at the top are not to be underestimated,and neither am I.”
I can hear the underlying threat in his words. He’s not just speaking about the others; he’s speaking about himself. But I don’t flinch. I keep pressing, pushing further.
“You think I’m afraid of losing my position, Isabella?” His voice drops to a dangerous low. “I’m not afraid of anything, not the lower ranks, not the rats, and certainly not the chaos that’s spreading like wildfire. What’s coming won’t touch me.”
My pulse quickens, and I swallow, but I refuse to break eye contact.
There’s something too certain in his tone, something too comfortable with the chaos around us. Almost like he’s not just weathering the storm, but steering it in a direction only he can see.
Before I can challenge him further, a knock at the door breaks the moment. A sharp, insistent knock. I watch as Monya’s posture shifts slightly, a subtle change, but enough to notice. He doesn’t look at the door but instead keeps his eyes fixed on me, almost daring me to speak.
The door swings open without waiting for a second knock, and a man steps inside. His presence is immediate, silent but commanding. He is the man from before who was counting the cash. But it’s the accent that catches my attention.
“Boss,” the man says, his voice thick with a distinct New York accent, sharp and clipped, not at all like the smooth cadence of the Russian tongue that surrounds us. “We’ve got to head out, the appointment’s waiting.”
He’s not Russian.
Things about this meeting and situation start to feel off.
‘‘Isabella,’’ Monya says, his tone cool and commanding, the edge to his voice hardening. ‘‘You won’t find the answers you’re looking for. Not from me. Not from anyone here. Whatever it is you’re hoping for, it ends now. Your quest for truth, for ourpreviouspakhan—it’s a dead end.’’ He leans forward, his gaze piercing. ‘‘Tsepov was a fool to give you a gateway. A gateway to what? Chaos? Suicide? It’s not a game you understand. You’re out of your depth.’’
His words strike like a slap, the weight of them sinking into my chest. The room feels smaller, the walls pressing in as I fight to keep my composure. My pulse is still quick, but now it’s out of anger, not fear.
He pauses, allowing the tension to rise, before delivering his final warning. ‘‘You’d be wise to stay away, Isabella. Keep the dead buried. Don’t go digging into things that are best left forgotten. Your journey ends here.’’
I meet his gaze head-on, defiant. ‘‘You don’t get to decide that,’’ I say, my voice steady, though the words come out sharper than I intend.
A flicker of something likerecognitionpasses across his face, but it’s gone too quickly to grasp. ‘‘There’s that stubborn spirit,’’ he replies, his lips curving slightly, though it’s not a smile. ‘‘He was right about that.’’
I narrow my eyes, the unspoken words hanging between us. ‘‘You don’t even know me.’’
He smirks, just once.
The room, once expansive and full of possibilities, now feels like a trap; every corner closing in, every movement too deliberate. I feel his presence like a pressure against my skin, and suddenly, the world around me feels overwhelmingly dangerous.
Monya stands, breaking the oppressive silence, and I do the same, my movements stiff. He towers over me, his height and calm demeanor exuding power. But beneath it all, I feel the tremble in my hands, the fear creeping into my bones.
‘‘Get her out of here,’’ Monya commands, his voice laced with finality, cutting through the thick tension.
Before I can react, I hear the shuffle of footsteps from behind me. I turn just in time to see two men, silent and cold, appear out of the shadows, their presence as unsettling as a storm on the horizon. One of them reaches for my arm, gripping it firmly, too firmly, and I jerk back, instinctively trying to pull away.
‘‘Let go of me,’’ I snap, trying to keep my voice steady, but the words catch in my throat. The fear is starting to spread, my heart pounding faster now. I’m being pushed toward the door, and I know there’s no fighting this. No way to win.
I’m almost at the door when my foot steps on something that makes a sharp crunch beneath me—papers, brittle and old.
I glance down without thinking. That’s when I see it.
A file. Half-hidden, lying amidst the clutter, as though it was discarded in haste. The papers surrounding it are scattered across the floor, the mess of the house more chaotic than I realized, but that one file stands out.
The name on the top of it:Lorenzo.
It hits me like a wave. I don’t know why or how, but I recognize that name. There’s something about it that pulls at me, some forgotten memory or flicker of something buried. I can’t place it, I’ve seen and read so many names in the past few days. But it doesn’t matter, I recognize it.
Without thinking, I bend down just as the man pushes me harder toward the door. My fingers curl around the file, gripping it tightly, almost desperate. The rough texture of the paper scratches against my skin as I yank it from the mess, instinctively tucking it close to my chest.
“Stop!” a voice shouts behind me, sharp and demanding, but I don’t hesitate. I have the file in my hands, and that’s all that matters now.
