Page 45 of Inevitable Endings
Nick stills.
I close my eyes, jaw clenched as I speak through the throbbing ache in my skull.
“You want something in America? Start there.”
A pause. Then, quietly—“Go on.”
I swallow against the blood in my throat. It’s information I can afford to lose, but just enough to keep him chasing ghosts.
“The Odessa group runs it. They handle transport, push shipments up the coast.” I let my breath drag for effect, my tone just weary enough to make it believable. “Cocaine from Colombia, heroin from the Balkans. Weapons are funneled through New Jersey docks, cash laundered through real estate. You will find shell companies in Manhattan, safehouses in Brooklyn. You want politicians? Judges? They use a law firm, Kazinsky & Roth, to handle bribes and black accounts.”
Nick leans in closer, his gaze never leaving mine. The air is thick with tension as he waits, patient yet unmistakably hungry for more.
I can feel the weight of his stare, like a physical pressure on my chest. The drug still courses through my veins, clouding my thoughts, but not enough to stop me from realizing what he wants next.
‘‘Names, Aslanov,’’ Nick says, his voice colder now. ‘‘I need a name. Who’s in charge of Brighton Beach? Who’s pulling the strings?’’
I close my eyes, trying to gather my thoughts, but the fog in my brain thickens with each breath. The pain in my skull is a constant drumbeat, pushing me further into the depths of this twisted game. The truth is slipping from my lips like sand through fingers, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
‘‘Dimitri Vasiliev,’’ I rasp, the name barely audible through the haze.
“Vasiliev,” Nick repeats, the name settling in his mind. ‘‘Good. You’re not completely useless, Aslanov.’’
“I’ll start small,” he continues, speaking slowly, deliberately. “I’ll take the pieces first. The money, the shipments, the men who think they’re untouchable. I’ll pick them off one by one, make them answer to me. And when I have enough in mypocket, when they start looking to me instead of the old guard—” he pauses, tilting his head, “then I’ll go for the heart.”
I swallow hard, my body trembling as the drug keeps its grip on me. I can’t hide the flicker of unease in my eyes, and he sees it.
Nick smiles. “That’s the difference between you and me, Aslanov. You built an empire from the top down, made them fear you first. Me? I’m going to dig in from the ground up, make them need me. By the time I’m done, your Bratva won’t even realize they’ve already lost.”
His words slither through my mind like a slow, creeping poison.
I don’t respond. I can’t. I’ve said enough, and the rest of me is crumbling under the weight of the drug, the pain, the fear – fear for the underworld and the one above.
But I know one thing for certain. The game has just begun, and I’ve given him a key to open the door.
Chapter 21
Hell is Calling
Isabella
The air outside is thick with frost, a cruel reminder that winter is truly coming. The city feels different tonight, quieter, but not in the comforting way.
I’m standing at the counter, carefully sorting through supplies. The shelves are organized, but still, there’s always something to be done; bandages to re-wrap, vials of medicine to check, drawers to clean. The familiar rhythm of the work eases the tension in my shoulders as my hands move without thought. My dark green hoodie is snug against the cold, my sleeves pushed up as I try to keep my hands warm by keeping them busy.
Sawyer’s by the window again, his leather jacket creaking as he shifts his weight, arms crossed over his chest. I glance at him now and then, the quiet and stillness between us both hanging thick. He hasn’t moved much tonight, content to watch the snow swirl in the wind, his boots resting on the windowsill. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing tattoos that stretch across his forearms. There’s something distant in his gaze, as if the storm outside is something deeper than just the weather.
Ada is moving around the back of the clinic, rummaging through paperwork and adjusting supplies. Her oversized sweater makes her look smaller than usual, her jeans worn at the knees, the fabric softened by time. She’s checking the inventory, flicking through some charts as she hums a low tune underher breath. Every so often, she glances over at me, her eyes searching for something, answers, maybe, or just some sort of connection amidst the stillness of the night.
The quiet between us is comforting in its own way, though there’s an edge to it. A tension that builds with each passing moment, the kind you can’t quite place, but you feel deep in your bones.
I hear a soft thud of Ada’s boots against the linoleum floor as she walks over to the sink. I turn my attention to the shelf I’m cleaning, the antiseptic smell filling the air as I wipe down each surface, fingers numb from the cold that keeps seeping in no matter how much we try to fight it.
‘‘Everything in order out there?’’ Ada’s voice breaks the quiet, soft but steady. Her eyes flick to Sawyer for a moment, watching him as he stands at the window.
Sawyer doesn’t answer right away, his gaze still lost in the storm outside. ‘‘As much as it can be,’’ he mutters, almost to himself. He glances over his shoulder at us. ‘‘Quiet night, I guess.’’
I set the cloth down, moving over to the desk to check the charts. The numbers are all there, everything accounted for, but something still doesn’t sit right. I glance at the clock on the wall, past midnight. The hours stretch longer on nights like this, as though time itself has slowed down, waiting for something.
