Page 37 of Inevitable Endings
“The only bloodline left,” she mumbles. “It makes sense.” She takes a breath, as if preparing herself for what comes next. “But even so, Isabella, this is bad. If Dominik takes over, the war won’t just be abouthimbecoming the next leader. It’ll beabout everything else. There will be people fighting for control. Multiple crime families, criminals of all kinds, they’ll see it as an opening. A moment of weakness. It’s a power vacuum. And when that happens, everything shifts.”
“Whoever tries to take his place, whoever fills that void…” Ada continues, her voice low and steady. “They’re going to have to fight for it. And they won’t fight alone. The stakes are too high. You’re talking about criminal empires, Isabella, not just some small-time gang. This is war. And it’s not just going to affect the Bratva. It’s going to bleed into everything else. Everyone gets involved. This is what the FBI, CIA, and police forces have been worried about for ages.”
“We should be careful with who we help in the clinic from now on,” Ada says suddenly, her voice firm, making me snap my attention back to her. Her expression is grim, calculating. “You have no idea who walks through those doors. If anyone from the Bratva, anyone with ties to that world, comes in here injured, you can’t just assume it’s a random victim. They’ll come with baggage. And that baggage might just be more dangerous than we can handle. That’s not what we’re for.”
I nod slowly, the unease settling deeper. She’s right. We’ve been treating people with a certain level of detachment, of safety, because we didn’t see the bigger picture. But now, everything’s different. And as much as I hate the thought, Ada’s warning hits home. We can’t be naive anymore.
Ada’s eyes darken as she exhales, her gaze distant. “Every time a boss dies—especially someone like Aslanov—there’s blood. A lot of it. Take the deaths of the heads of the Gambino or the Colombo families in New York. The moment they were gone, their deaths triggered a cascade of violence. Rival families saw it as an opportunity to move in, to take control, and every time, it was a bloodbath. Bodies left on the streets, entire neighborhoods torn apart with fear and violence. And that’s justone example. There are countless others where this exact thing has happened.”
‘‘You’ve already entered dangerous waters once. I have no idea what you’ve all seen there and who you’ve met, but there is no one to save you anymore now. We’re not inviting this in.’’
Pain aches in my chest as those words leave Ada her mouth, yet I know she is right.
Chapter 18
Cold Iron and Hollow Chains
Aslanov
The first thing I wake to is the cold. A raw, gnawing kind of cold that seeps deep into my muscles, wrapping around my bones like iron chains. It’s not just the damp chill of the underground, it’s the kind that’s been beaten into my skin, settled into the bruises and cuts that haven’t been given the chance to heal.
I shift, my body stiff and aching. My wrists are raw beneath the heavy metal shackles, the rusted cuffs digging into the skin, biting deep enough to leave permanent marks.
The air is thick with the scent of mold and damp stone, mixed with the faint metallic tang of rust and old blood. This place, wherever the hell it is, feels ancient, a relic from some forgotten war. The walls are thick, roughly hewn stone, slick with moisture in places, as if the earth itself is trying to reclaim them. The ceiling is low, giving the whole space a claustrophobic weight, pressing down on me like a living thing.
In the distance, water drips, a slow, steady rhythm echoing through the empty corridors beyond my cell. I hear the occasional shuffle of boots; guards patrolling, their movements lazy, unhurried. They aren’t worried about me escaping. They don’t need to be. Not when I’m kept like this.
I glance down at myself. My body is a mess of bruises, some old, some fresh, blooming in ugly shades of purple and sickly yellow. A cut along my ribs has stopped bleeding but still aches, the skin around it swollen. I’m shirtless, my torso bare to the cold, covered only in dirt, sweat, and blood. My pants are the same ones I was taken in; black, but now stiff with dried sweat and grime. My feet are bare. They took my shoes, probably worried I’d use them to fight back.
My body is leaner now, stripped down to sinew and bone from the lack of food. Every ridge of muscle stands out in sharp relief, my abs more defined than they ever were, though not from strength, just starvation. My ribs press against my skin, a painful reminder of how long it’s been since I’ve eaten enough to feel full.
They feed me slop, but that’s only the beginning of the Hell I’m forced to endure.
What they give me isn’t food, it’s a cruel mockery of sustenance. Thin, gray mush that smells rancid, floating in a soupy liquid that sloshes around like something that’s barely even alive. It’s the same every day. A disgusting slurry that sticks to my mouth, my teeth, the back of my throat, tasting like dirt, rot, and a faint metallic bitterness that lingers long after I’ve swallowed. It’s enough to keep me from starving outright, but only just. It’s a deliberate kind of torment, calculated to strip away everything, except the hunger. The gnawing, endless hunger.
Sometimes, they throw me a stale chunk of bread. Hard, dry, and sharp at the edges like it’s been sitting in the dark for weeks, maybe months. I break it into pieces, trying to make it soft enough to swallow. But it only crumbles and turns to dust in my mouth. There’s no substance to it. Nothing real.
The water is worse. A brownish, tainted liquid that reeks of rust, like it’s been drawn from a drain. I take it in small sips, butit never seems to be enough. I swallow it, and still, I feel parched, dry as if the very act of drinking is just another mockery of relief.
Prison? That was a luxury compared to here. Sure, there were bars, walls, guards—but there was some sense of time, some small comfort, even if it was just the presence of other people, hers. Food, even if it was barely edible, came regularly. Showers, albeit cold, still existed. You could dream of escaping, you could have moments of camaraderie with other prisoners. There was at least the illusion of life, a chance at survival.
This place? There’s no illusion. Just torment. I don’t even know how long I’ve been here. Weeks? Time is irrelevant. There are no clocks, no sense of day or night. Just the cold, the darkness, and the hunger that grows with every passing hour.
And the man who runs this place, Nick, he makes sure I know that every second I spend here is a second closer to my breaking point. He torments me, not just with hunger, but with silence, with isolation, with the weight of his eyes on me as I’m forced to endure whatever horrors he thinks will break me.
But even like this, even bruised and battered, my body still holds the marks of who I am.
Ink stretches across my skin, half-hidden beneath dirt and dried blood. On my left side, black thorns coil up my ribs, twisting toward my chest, the lines faded in places but still dark, still there.
My right shoulder bears a larger piece; a raven, wings spread wide, inked in deep, bold strokes. The details used to be sharp, each feather carefully etched, but bruises bloom beneath it, distorting the edges. Scars cut through parts of the design, old wounds that healed over but never quite disappeared. On my chest a cross, my mark of power. Yet I hold none of it in here. The viper that runs down my forearms with its fangs bare is now covered in blue and yellow bruises.
Even here, in this cage of damp stone and cold iron, mytattoos remain. They haven’t taken those from me. They haven’t stripped away the marks of the life I lived before this. And as long as I still breathe, they never will.
The metal door to my cell groans open, rust grinding against rust. I don’t react. There’s no point. I already know what’s coming.
Two men step inside. Always the same ones.
The first is built like a wall—thick neck, broad shoulders, arms heavy with muscle. From what I can see his face is coarse, unshaven, his dark eyes empty. A soldier. A man who follows orders without question. The second is leaner, his features sharper, almost foxlike. He’s quieter, more calculating, his movements careful, precise. He watches me with amusement, like a predator waiting for its prey to tire itself out before the kill.
