Page 44 of Inevitable Endings
His patience is fraying now, I can see it in the slight tension in his jaw.
Nick watches me for a long moment. Then, he speaks again.
“The Vor v Zakone.”
The highest-ranking thieves. The silent kings of our world, me.Or it used to be me, I’m a dead man now.
I gave him information before, carefully chosen pieces—Izmaylovsky Park, Taganskaya. Places far from here, far from him. Operations in Moscow, territories he can’t touch overnight. If he wants to break the Bratva, he’ll have to plan, infiltrate, wait. It was information I could give him to keep him satisfied all while protecting my empire.
But that’s not what he wants.
“Enough with the distant targets.” His voice is sharp now, edged with something like irritation. “I want names. I want locations. I want something here. In America.”
I don’t talk unless she’s threatened.
Suddenly Nick takes something from his pocket.
A small glass vial.
The liquid inside catches the dim light, a faint amber hue swirling as he tilts it slightly. I see it before I see the needle.
Something inside me twists.
I know what this is.
Nick crouches in front of me, rolling the syringe between his fingers, the needle glinting under the flickering overhead light. He watches me like a man testing the sharpness of a blade, measuring the moment before the first cut.
He gestures with his chin, and the two men flanking me step forward.
One of them pulls a length of rubber tubing from his pocket, stretching it between his hands before looping it around my upper arm. He yanks it tight, his fingers digging into my skin as he knots it off. The pressure clamps down on my bicep, making my veins swell beneath my skin.
Nick exhales, pressing his thumb against the crook of my arm, searching for the vein. His touch is clinical, practiced. Not the fumbling of a thug trying to play doctor. No, he’s done this before.
His fingers find what they’re looking for, and he doesn’t hesitate. The needle presses against my skin. A sharp sting. A slow push.
The cold rush spreads instantly, sinking into my bloodstream like ice.
I swallow hard, trying to brace myself, but it’s useless. My pulse pounds against my skull, a deep, insistent drumbeat that echoes through my body. The drug takes hold fast, dragging me under like an unseen current, pulling me away from solid ground.
My body is still wrecked, still screaming with pain, but my mind—
My mind is slipping.
I clench my jaw, trying to hold on, trying to fight it, but my thoughts start to stretch, unravel, spilling into one another like ink bleeding through paper.
Nick waits.
‘‘This,’’ Nick says, his voice low and almost too calm, ‘‘is sodium thiopental. It’s a truth serum, or at least that’s what they call it. You’ll speak, Aslanov.’’
“I’ve seen it work,” Nick continues, his voice almost matter-of-fact.
I could withstand the beatings, the cold, the hunger.
But he’s not threatening me. He’s threatening her.
I exhale, slow and measured. My head drops back against the chair as I force my lips to move. My voice is hoarse, broken. The drug is taking over my body.
“Brighton Beach.”
