Page 95 of Inevitable Endings
Bright lights, towering skyscrapers, the city that never sleeps. It’s a place where money flows like water, and blood is spilled just as easily. I know these streets. I ruled these streets.
Not anymore.
A familiar warehouse comes into view, one of our biggest smuggling hubs on the East Coast. Or at least, it was. Now, it’s a wasteland of charred metal and blackened concrete. Firefighters move like ghosts through the wreckage, their boots crunching over the remains of an empire reduced to ash. My jaw tightens.
Nick clicks his tongue. ‘‘That one was fun. Your men didn’t even see it coming. We hit the supply line first—shipment containers intercepted at the docks. Everything from weapons to heroin, seized or destroyed. Then, we moved on to the warehouse. Gasoline. A single match. And poof.’’ He gestures dramatically, grinning. ‘‘Gone.’’
The screen flickers. Another image.
A club in Brooklyn. One of ours, no, one of mine. Bodies litter the floor, their blood pooling beneath strobe lights still flickering in the aftermath. My men. My soldiers. Gunned down like dogs.
‘‘I gave them a choice,’’ Nick continues. ‘‘ Join me, or join thedead. Most chose poorly.’’
The images keep coming.
More warehouses, more safe houses, more bodies.
Then, Russia.
‘‘Of course, your reach crosses all borders,’’ Nick says casually, scrolling through the carnage. ‘‘Some of your more... loyal men fled back home, hoping to regroup. I thought it was only polite to pay them a visit.’’
Moscow. St. Petersburg. Rostov-on-Don.
The Tambovskaya Bratva
My operations there weren’t just attacked, they were eradicated. Men strung up from bridges, their bodies swaying like broken marionettes. Families torn apart. Weapons caches raided and redistributed under a new banner, Nick’s banner. Transport routes that once belonged to me now work under his control.
Who the hell is this man?
Then the worst of it.
Trucks. Dozens of them, lined up at a private airstrip. Containers being loaded with product. My product.
‘‘You see, Aslanov,’’ Nick murmurs, stepping closer, ‘‘I didn’t just take your businesses. I became your businesses. Every shipment, every deal, every route—mine now. Your men? Those that survived? They work for me.’’ He tilts his head. ‘‘Well, most of them. The rest… let’s just say they won’t be troubling us anymore.’’
The final image fills the screen.
A signature. My signature. Forged onto contracts, into ledgers, onto every legal document that keeps the Bratva’s front businesses running.
‘‘A little paperwork,’’ Nick says, smirking. ‘‘Nothing personal, of course. Just needed to make sure everything transitioned smoothly.’’ He leans in, his breath a disgusting taunt. ‘‘Your menare crumbling; the Vor v Zakone will be next. I know they can feel it, the ground rumbling and falling underneath them.’’
The projector clicks off. Darkness swallows the room once more, leaving me with only the echoes of my downfall ringing in my ears.
Nick straightens, adjusting his suit with an air of effortless control. ‘‘Well, I’d love to stay and chat, but unfortunately, I have a new empire to run. I hope you enjoyed your meal. It may be the last kindness you get.’’
The food, real food, sits heavy in my stomach, warmth spreading through my veins like a long-forgotten drug. It doesn’t make me strong, not like I was, but it makes me awake. Present. My mind sharpens in the darkness, the shadows no longer pressing quite as heavy against me.
Nick turns, already halfway to the door, adjusting his cufflinks as if my destruction is nothing more than another business meeting crossed off his list. The sound of his polished shoes echoing against the concrete is too final, too easy. He’s walking away as if I’m already dead.
My voice cuts through the silence, hoarse but steady.
‘‘Can’t I choose my last kindness? Or do you have less dignity than a death row system?’’
Nick stops. A slow chuckle rumbles from his chest, deep and mocking. He doesn’t turn right away, savoring the moment, drawing it out like a predator toying with its prey. Finally, he pivots, his gaze settling on me with something almost amused.
‘‘Bold words from a man in chains.’’
I tilt my head, flexing my fingers against the cold steel binding me, feeling the bite of the metal. The food has given me something else—adrenaline.
