Dangerous Beginnings (The Beginnings Duet #1)

Him

Chapter 21

Him

Isabella

The revelation of his true identity shakes the foundations of my carefully constructed new life. The knowledge that I had unwittingly crossed paths with one of the most formidable figures in organized crime sends shivers down my spine.

My hands tremble as I carefully close the file, the weight of the revelations pressing on me like a suffocating blanket. The fear that had taken root in my heart for the past months now threatens to paralyze me, and the once comforting solitude of my work desk feels like a cage closing in.

I pace back and forth, the city lights outside the window flickering in sync with the erratic rhythm of my thoughts. Is this what I want? The decision before me looms like a dark abyss—to retreat into the safety of ignorance or to confront the perilous reality I have stumbled upon. The risk of discovery became a constant companion, but my desperation for answers propelled me forward. I already know too much.

As I dig deeper, the night begins to set in. The dark secrets I unveil paint a portrait of a criminal mastermind, Aslanov, whose influence reaches beyond Moscow. Far beyond. Fear and fascination intertwine, creating a potent cocktail of emotions that leaves me paralyzed. My instincts scream at me to distance myself, erase any trace of my curiosity, and return to the semblance of normalcy I’ve worked so hard to build. Yet, an undeniable pull urges me to delve deeper, to uncover the truth.

Several files lay scattered across my desk. Each one is a collection of crimes he or his men have committed— blackmail, stalking, kidnapping, armed robbery, drugs, illegal contributions, human trafficking, road rage, and murder. My eyes remain glued to the papers, and I think my heart stopped beating a few seconds ago. As I open another file, the consequences of my relentless pursuit loom ominously on the horizon. There is enough information about him, but the most important part is missing. The part that makes it impossible for people to find or arrest him is his physique.

But I know .

Aslanov

The underground labyrinth beneath Moscow holds secrets darker than the city’s shadows. I am clad in a perfectly tailored black suit, descending the narrow staircase leading to the dimly lit basement. The air is thick with tension, anticipation, and the acrid scent of damp concrete. Volkov, once a trusted member of the organization, now stands at the center of the cavernous space, his eyes avoiding my steely gaze. The subdued hum of fluorescent lights overhead cast a pallor over Volkov’s haggard face, revealing the wear and tear of a man who has betrayed the unspoken code of loyalty. This is what happens to people who betray me.

My steps echo in the cold, underground chamber, each one sending a shiver down Volkov’s spine. The sound of my polished shoes on the concrete reverberates like a foreboding drumbeat. “You think you can betray me, Volkov?” My voice, low and controlled, slices through the silence, carrying a weight that intensifies the gravity of the betrayal. Two men stand in the back, watching the door. Volkov swallows hard, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

“I had my reasons, Aslanov. You don’t understand.” He stumbles over his words. Lies. I halt a few paces away from him, my expression an unreadable mask. The dim light carves sharp angles on my chiseled face, highlighting the ruthlessness lurking beneath the surface.

“I understand more than you think,” I reply, my tone colder than the basement’s concrete walls. “Loyalty is not a currency to be traded, Volkov. It’s the very essence of our existence.” Volkov’s eyes dart around the room, desperate for an escape that isn’t there.

“I had no choice. They came for me, for my family.” My gaze remains unyielding.

“There are always choices, Volkov. You chose betrayal, and now you must face the consequences.” Without warning, I signal to my men, who emerge from the shadows like silent phantoms. The sound of their footsteps echoes in unison, creating a dissonant symphony that underscores the gravity of the moment. One of them hands me my black gloves and the other places my knife in my hand. I stand unmoved as Volkov’s pleas for mercy echo in the dimly lit basement. The air crackles with tension, and the low hum of the overhead lights seems to mock the impending darkness that will soon envelop him.

“You knew the consequences, Volkov,” I say, my voice steady and unforgiving, the words slicing through his desperate, gasping cries like a sharp blade. “Betrayal stains everything we stand for.”

The man before me trembles, his pale skin a sickly contrast to the dark, blood-soaked surroundings. He dangles from the chains that bind him, limbs limp, his face an expression of agony that doesn’t faze me. I let my gaze linger for a moment longer, relishing the final moments of his life.

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, I drive the blade into his stomach. The knife meets flesh with a sickening crunch, the air heavy with the metallic scent of blood that immediately begins to pool beneath him. His scream is raw, desperate, as if pleading for mercy that will never come. I lean in closer, my voice soft but laced with venom. “Tsk tsk. And we’re only just beginning.” I pull the knife from his wound, savoring the way his body spasms in protest, then stab it deep into his leg. The blade sinks easily, cutting through sinew and bone, eliciting another choked cry from him. I twist the knife, carving through muscle, ensuring the pain is excruciating and unrelenting. His blood begins to drain in a steady stream, slicking the floor beneath us, but he’s too far gone.

The seconds tick by in a slow, agonizing rhythm. He has 1 minute and 52 seconds. That’s all. I can practically feel the countdown echo in my mind as I methodically sever his fingers one by one. The cold, wet snap of bone is music to my ears, and I toss his wedding ring to the ground carelessly, the small, insignificant piece of metal now a symbol of his broken vows.

With careful precision, I carve the Bratva mark into his chest. The knife bites into his flesh as though it belongs there, a permanent reminder of his failure. His eyes, half-lidded from the pain, meet mine one final time, and for a fleeting moment, I wonder if he’s truly seeing me or if the blood loss has already clouded his vision. But then, it doesn’t matter. With a final, merciless thrust, I drive the blade deep between his eyes. The impact is a soft, wet thud, and his body shudders, going limp as the last breath leaves him. His gaze lingers for a fraction of a second longer, a mix of terror and regret, before it fades into nothingness. I stand over him, taking in the scene—the mess, the silence that follows the screams, the broken body at my feet. This is the price of betrayal. This is the cost of disloyalty to the family.

I wipe the blade clean with the sleeve of my jacket, my expression unreadable, and as the weight of what I’ve done settles over me, I feel the sudden, overwhelming need to cleanse myself. A shower. I need a shower.

Isabella

It’s late when I arrive home. I locked up the place before I left and made sure to check that I had put everything back where it belonged. My place feels cold and so do I. I feel eerie, like I’ve done something I should not have. Which is true. My work was to keep me sane, yet I have access to things I should never have gotten access to.

I lock the door behind me, the sound of the deadbolt sliding into place echoing in the silence. The apartment feels too quiet, too still. I flick on the lights, casting away the shadows that seem to cling to every corner. I hang my coat over the chair, my movements slow and deliberate, and kick off my shoes, letting them fall haphazardly. I sigh as I turn on all the lights, making sure to close the curtains. I must have left them open when I left, but now they feel like open eyes peering into my sanctuary.

The chill from the New York night seeps into the room, so I pull on my warmest socks, trying to shake off the unease gnawing at the edges of my mind. In the kitchen, I reach for a glass, the silence pressing down on me. As I take a sip of water, my phone vibrates. The sound slices through the stillness, making me flinch. I roll my eyes, assuming it’s Alexa, the only person who would text me at this hour.

I pull my hair into a bun, trying to brush off the creeping tension. But when I pull out my phone, the water catches in my throat. I freeze, staring at the screen, the glass slipping from my hand and shattering on the floor.

Unknown:

Sniffing around in my business, I hear?