Dangerous Beginnings (The Beginnings Duet #1)

The Devil Comes Knocking

Chapter 5

The Devil Comes Knocking

Isabella

I’ve never seen this man before, but the moment our eyes meet, I know I have no desire to get to know him. The sharp scent of vodka fills my nostrils, and in that instant, I suddenly feel completely sober. The man tosses his cigarette to the ground, his boots crunching the embers as he steps toward me. Despite the high heels I’m wearing, he still towers over me, his presence suffocating.

He leans in, his breath cold against my ear as he whispers, “Izmennik.” Traitor .

His voice sends a chill down my spine— Russian . It couldn’t be. I can feel my face burn with the deepest shade of red as he pulls away. I feel dizzy, my head spinning as I try to process what just happened. The man’s gaze moves down, inspecting me like I’m nothing more than an object to be judged. If eyes could violate, his would.

The crowd around us is thinning, and I realize no one notices what’s happening. It’s as if the world has faded, leaving only the man and me standing in this terrible silence. I glance at his jacket as he lifts it slightly, revealing the cold, dark outline of a gun tucked in the back pocket.

“Do you know what happens to traitors, Isabella?” His voice is low, menacing. My heart sinks, turning to stone as I try to steady myself. I feel my breath catch in my throat, and tears threaten to fall.

“Do you want a taster?” He doesn’t wait for my answer, and I quickly shake my head. I’m not just scared—I’m trapped. There’s no escape from this.

He tilts his head slightly, as if examining my every reaction, then looks back at the man behind me. With a subtle nod, they both turn to leave. The black Mercedes waits for them, its engine growling as they walk toward it. Just before getting in, he glances back at me with a knowing look.

I catch his lips moving, though I can’t be sure of the exact words. I think he said, Not a word. His gaze lingers a moment longer before he slips into the car, the vehicle roaring to life and speeding away into the night.

Nadia’s voice breaks through the haze, and I look up to see her rushing toward me. A tear escapes, sliding down my cheek as I try to swallow the weight of what just happened. I want to speak, to tell her what I’ve just endured, but the words feel like they’re stuck in my throat.

After last night I have not dared to leave my house. I pushed Nadia off with some sort of lame excuse. She was luckily too drunk to notice my poor effort. When I came home, I locked all the doors and closed every window. Terrified they would have followed me to my house. I’m currently sitting at my kitchen counter, bawling my eyes out. I haven’t been able to get one bite of food in. I have not slept one minute and now it is again almost 8 PM the following evening. And guess what, I have work. And I cannot call in sick, I’m terrified I will lose my job and become homeless too. I will be homeless and terrified, sounds bad. As I drive to the prison complex to park my car, I beg God to not get me in contact with him .

Diable

Isolation is a purgatory of its own making. The sterile white walls of the cell close in, a stark and suffocating reminder of my separation from the world. It’s a place where the echoes of one’s own thoughts become deafening, where time stretches into an endless abyss. Here, the solitude serves as both torment and revelation.

In the oppressive silence, every minute detail of my existence becomes amplified. The slow drip of the leaky faucet, the distant clamor of footsteps, and the murmurs of distant voices—all merge into a cacophony of loneliness. It’s a world stripped of distraction, a crucible where one’s mind can either break or become remarkably clear.

One hour later, I am escorted outside to another cell to get some air.

Even the harshest regimes recognize the need for some semblance of human decency—or at least the illusion of it. For the sake of maintaining basic physical health and psychological equilibrium, the prison system allows a brief period outside the cell. It’s a grim concession meant to prevent extreme deterioration of mental health that could result from total sensory deprivation. This “exercise quarter” is strictly regulated, providing just enough time for prisoners to stretch their limbs and receive a minimal amount of fresh air.

The outside cell feels like a steel coffin. The walls close in, a barren expanse of white and cold, save for the iron bars of the tiny outdoor enclosure where I’m allowed a brief, tortured reprieve from the claustrophobic darkness of my cell. I move through my workout routine with grim determination, the clanking of my pull-ups reverberating off the confined space. My hands grip the rusted iron bars as I lift myself, each movement a blend of raw strength and seething frustration.

My concentration is shattered when the main gates groan open with a familiar, ominous creak. I glance over, my movements stuttering as I catch sight of her. There she is, emerging from the secure area, the gate slamming shut behind her. Her presence stirs something dark within me—desire and fury intertwine as I watch her, the very embodiment of forbidden allure.

Nearby, another inmate prepares to be escorted back to his cell. I wait, hand stretching through the bars, sensing that my own return to confinement is imminent. The guard arrives, cuffs clicking closed around my wrists with a practiced, indifferent efficiency. Irony laces my predicament: here I am, shackled and imprisoned, yet the mere sight of her awakens a primal, dangerous fascination.

As the cell door swings open for the other inmate, he erupts in a frenzy of violence. A self-made knife flashes as he attacks the guard, slashing mercilessly across his face. Blood sprays, mingling with the chaos that follows. The inmate bolts toward her, a maddened figure driven by desperation.

Panic explodes in every direction. Inmates scatter, guards shout, and the air thickens with terror. Yet she remains rooted in place, her bravery or foolishness a stark contrast to the chaos unfolding around her. I feel a twisted sense of clarity in this mayhem—her imminent danger is both a distraction and a dark opportunity.

Seizing the moment, I overpower the nearest guard, wrenching his gun from his belt with brutal efficiency. I chase after the crazed man, the weight of the gun a grim reminder of the deadly game at play. My shot finds its mark in his leg, but he grunts in pain and continues his mad dash. I admire his tenacity even as it fuels my resolve.

He turns, suddenly aware of the danger closing in on him, and slashes the knife across my arm. The pain ignites a feral rage within me, the world blurring as I succumb to the fury. The man’s eyes widen in terror as he realizes the depth of his mistake. He drops the knife, his pleas for help a pathetic echo in the chaos.

I laugh—a deep, menacing sound that reverberates through the turmoil. As he stumbles in an attempt to flee, I discard the gun and retrieve his knife. Without hesitation, I drive the blade into his skull, slicing through his brain with ruthless precision. His body collapses, lifeless, before her.

Isabella

I park my car in the dimly lit lot and sit there for a moment, trying to steady my breath. My mind is already whirling with the events of the day, and I need a minute before I face whatever’s next. I’m still processing the strange encounter from earlier, the lingering tension, when I finally see Lea’s car pull into the lot. She parks beside me and steps out, looking as casual as ever.

“How’s the new apartment?” I ask, trying to push aside the knot in my stomach.

“It’s great, honestly. Really cozy, but I swear I’m already planning to redecorate it. Can’t leave anything as it is,” Lea grins, but her usual energy doesn’t quite reach her eyes. It’s obvious that she can sense something is off about me, but she doesn’t ask.

We start walking towards the gates together, chatting about mundane things to distract myself from the tension I can’t shake. My heels click on the pavement, the sound too sharp against the heavy silence of the night.

Then, out of nowhere, we hear it—shouting. At first, it’s distant, but it grows louder, and more frantic, and I feel a sudden spike in my heartbeat. My stomach tightens, and I glance over at Lea, my lips parting to ask if she hears it too. Before I can, the scene unfolds so quickly that I’m not even sure if I’m seeing it all.

A man appears out of the darkness, charging towards us with a knife clutched tightly in his hand. The glint of the blade catches the light and my mind blanks. My feet are rooted to the ground, completely still, frozen in place by sheer panic. The chaos around me swells—screams echo, people scattering, but I can’t move. It’s like I’m trapped in slow motion, waiting for the impact, the pain, the inevitable strike.

But then... nothing.

I don’t feel the blade, the sharp sting I expected. Instead, I feel a strange absence, a profound stillness. I blink, confusion overtaking me, and my senses snap back into place. My eyes fly open, only to find myself face to face with something far worse than I imagined—a massive shadow towering over me. The man who was rushing toward me is now frozen, facing away, but I can see him—just for a split second before he crumples to the ground, lifeless.

The entire scene feels like it’s happening in slow motion. My heart thunders in my chest, a deafening beat I can’t escape. The man has dropped dead, and all I hear is the static hum of my own blood rushing in my ears. My limbs feel frozen, my vision blurry as I try to process the moment, trying to understand what just happened.

I glance down, and my eyes trace the body of the man who had been coming for me, now lying motionless on the ground, a pool of dark red already beginning to spread. My breath hitches as my gaze slowly rises to meet the figure standing before me, the one who has intervened so decisively.

It’s him.

The one who had been shackled and restrained, his presence a constant shadow in the back of my mind. Now, he stands before me, towering and still, as if he’s always been this way. He’s at least a head taller than the man who had attacked me, his sheer size making him seem even more imposing. His posture is rigid, the slightest movement of his chest the only sign that he’s still alive.

I can’t move, can’t breathe as his gaze locks with mine. His eyes are dark, empty—unreadable, and for a moment, I feel like the smallest creature alive. A mouse caught in a trap, frozen in place. I’m small under the weight of his stare, insignificant, yet he holds me there with nothing more than his gaze.

The world falls silent again, my heart drumming in my chest, when suddenly the static in my ears fades. The sounds of the chaos around me come rushing back—the panicked yelling, the clatter of footsteps on concrete, the distant wail of sirens.

Guards rush into the scene then, their faces obscured by black masks, dressed in heavy tactical gear. They swarm around the prisoner, shouting commands at him to drop the knife. He doesn’t resist, doesn’t flinch. He simply lets the shiv fall from his hand, the blade hitting the ground with a sickening clink. They swarm him, tackle him to the cold, unforgiving ground, and quickly restrain him, snapping cuffs around his wrists with practiced precision.

But even as they drag him away, as his body is hauled off, kicking and struggling, his eyes never leave mine. His gaze is relentless, burning into my mind. It’s like he’s branding me, marking me in a way that feels impossible to shake. As he’s pulled toward the gate, the last thing I see is his unblinking stare, his expression unreadable, but somehow piercing.

The guards usher him out of the yard, and I stand there, feeling like I’ve just been caught in a whirlwind. My pulse is still hammering in my ears, but the weight of his eyes, that cold stare, lingers.

And even after the noise dies down and I’m left standing alone, I can’t escape it. His eyes are burned into my memory, and they will be for days, maybe longer.

Diable

They return me to my isolation cell, and this time, the cuffs remain firmly locked around my wrists. The cold metal bites into my skin, a cruel reminder of my imprisonment. I’m thrust back into the stifling confines, the walls pressing in with their sterile, oppressive whiteness.

The blood from my wounded arm seeps steadily, a dark and liquid testament to the chaos that just unfolded. Each drop is a visceral reminder of my recent violence, a macabre rhythm that echoes in the suffocating silence. I sit, shackled and drenched in the tang of my own blood; my thoughts consumed by her. She’s a tantalizing enigma, her fear a heady perfume that ignites something twisted and depraved in my core.

I envision her coming to me, drawn into this purgatorial cell by some perverse fate. She would enter, trembling yet resolute, and I would make her crawl. Not merely in submission, but in a profound, degrading realization of her own vulnerability. The thought of her on her knees before me, a symbol of her broken resolve, stirs a deep, dark satisfaction.