Page 166 of Inevitable Endings
“I’m proud of you,” he murmurs.
A monster, cradling his favorite sin.
Chapter 66
In the Presence of the ‘Dead’, and the Soon-to-Be Dead
Aslanov
They are already gathered when I step into the room. Five bodies, five storms contained in flesh. Isabella sits nearest the fire, her shoulders drawn tight with exhaustion she’ll never admit to.
She feels me before she sees me.
I know it by the way her spine stiffens slightly, her head tilting the smallest degree, not alarm, not fear. Just awareness. Like her body’s become attuned to mine, even in silence. Especially in silence.
Her gaze lifts as I enter, sharp as always, but there’s something else behind her eyes now, something searching, maybe even hoping. She looks like a blade, curled and hidden in velvet, unsure if it’s meant to wound or protect anymore.
I’m not the same man with people around as when I’m alone with her. It’s a part only she’ll ever get to see.
Ada is hunched over her laptop, eyes flickering with reflected code. She doesn’t look up, but I feel her tension, hyperaware, wired like a trap. Her fingers never stop moving, she’s used to danger. Beside her, Sawyer leans back in his chair, all lazy posture and a glint of predator beneath it. His fingers toy witha silver lighter, casual but always ready. Always watching. I’ve come to respect him more. Across from them sits Karpov, the old bastard; we would have been enemies in another life. He cradles a thick folder in his lap like it’s a bomb, and by the look in his eyes, he’s been waiting his whole life to light the fuse.
And Dominik. My brother. My blood. My mirror.
He stands in the far corner, arms behind his back, posture straight as a soldier. He says nothing—he hasn’t in years, not since they took his tongue—but Dominik never needed words. His presence speaks louder than most men’s voices ever could. His eyes track me as I move, burning with unspoken fire.
I don’t announce myself. I don’t need to. No one rises. No one speaks. Their silence is not out of fear, it’s instinct. I’ve been a myth for too long now. A ghost draped in threat. But tonight, I take my seat at the head of this table. It has sat empty for months. That will soon end.
Isabella watches me closely. She’s always searching; for warmth, for softness, for the man buried under the armor. She won’t find him. Not here. Not with everyone around. But I nod once, and that’s all it takes.
Dominik moves. With precision, he unfolds a single piece of paper and slides it across the table to me. The writing is sharp, almost violent in its clarity.
‘‘Maxim Lazovsky. The rat. He’s turned Zakharov and Yegorov. They held a meeting without me. Dimitri recorded it, the only loyal one left. They want me dead.’’
I read it. I don’t blink. Then I take the small black drive he produces from his coat. Cold. Smooth. Heavy with truth. My fingers close around it, and the room shifts.
Isabella peeks over and furrows her brows, ‘‘We have heard of that name before, haven’t we?’’ She turns to look at Ada, and in return, Ada stares at the ink on paper. ‘‘Yes, you’re right. That name was on Aslanov’s fake deceased report, amongst someother names. Lorenzo’s name was on it, too, but we just had no idea who he was and how he was involved.’’
My knuckles turn white from squeezing my fingers, there rats.
Lazovsky
Though the name doesn’t surprise me. The hunger was always there. The way he watched me like a man waiting to inherit the bones of a greater predator. I gave him nothing but silence. That silence clearly wasn’t enough. It is never enough for men lurking in the closest shadows, craving power.
He didn’t think I’d still be breathing.
Good.
‘‘Give me those names on that file; these are all possible rats.’’
Without a word, I slide the drive across the table to Ada. Her hands move quickly, and soon voices spill from the speakers, Russian, brittle, conspiratorial. The audio is rough, laced with static, but the words cut through. No one understands, except me and Dominik. They name Dominik. And they name me like I’m a ghost they’ve already buried a very long time ago. Sad to hear they don’t miss me.
They speak of removing the last Karamazov. They speak of a funeral.
There will be a funeral, theirs.
The fire behind me cracks once, a slow death rattle in the quiet. No one speaks as the recording fades to silence.
I lean forward, voice low and cold as the grave. “I want them to look into my eyes when they die.”
