Page 139 of Inevitable Endings
The words hit like a gunshot in a silent room.
I stare at him, my mind scrambling to catch up. ‘‘So... my boss at work,’’ I say slowly, the words tasting foreign, unreal on my tongue, ‘‘was a mafia boss?’’
The room seems to shrink around me. My heart thuds once, hard, before everything goes very still.
Ada leans forward, her voice steady despite the chaos flickering behind her eyes. ‘‘We were on the right track, then.’’ She flicks the screen to a new set of images, deeper files, more connections, more proof. She turns back to Aslanov.
‘‘Was he the one who held you captive?’’
Aslanov nods, once. The movement is sharp, controlled.
‘‘Yes,’’ he says. ‘‘I only saw his face clearly. But I know there were others, rats from the Bratva. Their accents slipped. It wasn’t a one-man job.’’
I sit there, still stunned, the pieces twisting into a shape I don’t want to recognize.
But something doesn’t add up, something in the way Aslanov’s jaw stays tight, in the way his gaze keeps cutting toward me. He’sholding something back. He is acting strange.
The silence stretches until Sawyer, sharp as ever, cuts through it.
‘‘And the scribbled-out name?’’ he asks, voice low but firm. ‘‘The‘Sal’what’s that about?’’
Aslanov’s mouth pulls into a thin, grim line.
‘‘Salvatore,’’ he says. His voice dips even lower, colder. ‘‘The previous boss of the Gambinos. Lorenzo’s brother.’’
Before any of us can react, Dominik moves, two quick signs flashed across the table, his hands sharp and precise.
Aslanov answers without missing a beat, his eyes not leaving mine.
‘‘He told me himself,’’ he says. ‘‘Right before he planned to execute me.’’
Ada exhales sharply, breaking the silence. ‘‘Fuck,’’ she mutters under her breath. ‘‘We were right.’’
But something’s wrong.
Aslanov’s whole frame is tensing, tightening like a wire about to snap. His eyes narrow, the flicker of something dark moving through them; not fear, not anger exactly. Something heavier.
I lean forward instinctively. ‘‘What’s wrong?’’ I ask, trying to keep my voice even.
Aslanov doesn’t answer right away. He shifts, muscles coiling.
‘‘I don’t feel right,’’ he mutters, but it’s alie, I can hear it. Feel it.
Across the room, Sawyer stiffens, sensing it too.
‘‘He’s spiraling,’’ Sawyer says tightly, stepping back. ‘‘Take him out. Now.’’
And that’s all it takes.
In a blur of movement, Aslanov surges forward, two strides, fast and brutal, knocking the chair aside like it’s nothing. His cuffed wrists grab Sawyer’s collar with a force that makes the air suck right out of the room. He’s stronger, more dangerous thanany of us are.
Everyone at the table shoots to their feet, chairs scraping violently against the floor.
Aslanov’s whole body radiates fury, something feral and coiled, the side of him they tried to chain down, slipping loose.
Sawyer, pinned but unflinching, snarls back at him, his hands gripping Aslanov’s arms but unable to shove him off.
‘‘I don’t trust you,’’ he spits through clenched teeth.
