Dangerous Beginnings (The Beginnings Duet #1)

The Devil Punishes

Chapter 23

The Devil Punishes

Isabella

Two days have passed, and anxiety has stalked me like a relentless predator. His silence haunts me, leaving a gnawing fear that twists tighter with each passing hour. I regret trying to play the fearless woman, wishing instead for the comfort of my soft Hello Kitty pajama pants, anything to shield me from the terror that lurks just beneath the surface. But the world doesn’t pause for fear. Work beckons and it’s a cruel irony that my job now feels like walking straight into his presence. I make my way through the crowded streets of New York, the city’s relentless energy doing little to soothe the dread that clings to me. I enter the police department, where the air hums with tension, a stark contrast to its usual controlled chaos.

The moment I step in, the buzzing activity only heightens my nerves. Every movement, every conversation seems laced with an undercurrent of fear. I try to mask the turmoil inside, but it’s no use. Ada approaches me, her expression tinged with concern. “Isa, are you okay?” Her eyes, reflecting the unease that has gripped the entire department, confirm what I already know—I look as bad as I feel.

“I’m fine, just a rough night,” I lie, my voice barely steady. “What’s going on?” I glance around the restless office, hoping to distract myself from the growing knot of dread in my stomach.

Ada signs, her voice heavy with a somber tone. “The man we were investigating, he’s dead. He was the one we saw on TV when I called you. Murdered most brutally. They’re saying it’s the work of the Russian mafia, a message to anyone who dares cross them. Just like I told you on the phone.”

My heart stutters, the weight of my secret pressing down with suffocating force. “That’s terrible, but why would the Bratva be involved with the mafia here in New York?” Ada shakes her head, her gaze darting around the room as if searching for answers that won’t come.

“I don’t know, Isa. This is bigger than anything we’ve ever dealt with. The department is on edge, and the rumors about this Russian mafia boss are spreading like wildfire. They’re saying he did it himself. He’s been on a rampage, killing everything in his way. A trail of blood that’s been growing for months.”

The mention of him sends a shiver down my spine, but I force myself to remain composed.

“I’ve never heard of him. What makes him so special? There are other mafia bosses and other families. Why is he different?”

Ada’s expression darkens as she pulls me into her office, shutting the door behind us. “He’s not just another mafia boss. Rumor has it, he’s heartless—controls the Russian mafia with an iron fist. They call him Diable , like the devil.” She swallows hard as if speaking his name brings a curse upon her lips.

“No one knows what he looks like, and those who do never live to tell. They say he’s never spared anyone who crossed him.” She rubs her eyes, the weight of the situation evident in the tension that lines her face. My blood runs cold, the dread pooling in my gut like ice water. That doesn’t bode well for me.

“We know about his business, a few things that circle him, but nothing concrete about the man himself. Only that he’s in his mid-thirties.”

I nearly choke on my water. My pulse quickens, my mind a storm of fear and confusion. The truth hovers on the edge of my lips, but terror chokes it back. I can’t betray what I know—what I’ve seen. Ada, unaware of the battle raging within me, continues. “The whole department is on edge. We’re dealing with someone who doesn’t play by any rules we understand, and the consequences could be catastrophic. Look at what they did to him!” She pushes the photos of the dead man toward me, the grotesque images enough to twist my stomach into knots. I glance at the mutilated body, bile rising in my throat as my eyes catch the gruesome details. Ada points to the man’s chest. “Do you see this mark, carved into his skin?” I nod, my hands trembling. “It’s the Bratva’s mark.” A flash of his tattooed hand with the same mark sears through my mind, vivid and unshakable. I grapple with the realization that the man responsible for this carnage—the one who now consumes the entire police department—is the same man who has invaded my thoughts and my dreams. The man whose voice I can still hear echoes through the quiet of the night.

If the stories are true, I am doomed. I’ve wandered too far into the darkness, and there may be no way out. The danger isn’t just lurking in the shadows—it’s staring me down, and it knows exactly who I am. I’m in deep, so deep that the fear is no longer just a whisper in the dark; it’s a scream that I can’t escape.

Aslanov

The night in Moscow glows like a distant inferno, the city lights painting the skyline in shades of gold and crimson, an intoxicating facade masking the chaos lurking beneath. The air is thick with secrets, and I move through it, my presence as palpable as the cold, hard steel of the city’s underbelly. Every step I take resonates with authority, reverberating through the narrow, shadowed halls where power is forged and broken. Business deals are struck in the quiet, the delicate dance of alliances and betrayals playing out like a well-rehearsed symphony. The Bratva functions with ruthless precision, a machine too dangerous to fail, and each turn of its gears brings me closer to absolute control.

Volkov’s death is still fresh, its shockwaves reaching the furthest corners of the criminal world. Whispers swirl through the streets like smoke, each voice carrying a fragment of truth, each one questioning the reasons behind his demise. But I’ve already set the narrative in motion. My men are working tirelessly in the shadows, shaping the story, twisting it to my advantage. I cannot allow any crack in the facade; the power I wield must remain unchallenged, undisputed.

As I step into the sleek interior of my black-tinted Porsche, the engine hums to life with a quiet growl, cutting through the night like a predator stalking its prey. I glance at my phone. Her name flashes across the screen—an unread message from days ago. The small, flashing notification taunts me. She’s waiting .

A fleeting smile curves my lips as I think of her—her confusion, her frustration. She’s anxious. I can feel it. Just enough time has passed to leave her suspended in uncertainty, a delicious tension that only fuels my anticipation. I’m not ready to deal with her yet. No. There are more pressing matters at hand. The Bratva, the city, the empire—it all demands my attention, and I cannot allow myself to be distracted. Not yet.

But when the time comes, when everything is in place, when I can finally step out of the shadows and claim what’s mine, I will make my move. She won’t know what hit her. I’ll come for her, slowly, methodically. I’ll make her believe every whisper of terror she’s ever heard. Every fear she’s buried deep within her will surface in ways she never thought possible. She’ll be mine in every sense of the word, and I’ll ensure that the truth she clings to will be rewritten, distorted, until it becomes the nightmare I carve for her.

And when it’s done, she will know exactly who holds the power. She will know the price of defiance.

For now, I turn my attention back to the road, my fingers tightening on the steering wheel, my eyes narrowing as I push the car forward into the darkness. The world will bend to my will. In time, she will, too.

Isabella

I stare at the pictures in front of me. Ada spreads them out, starting her investigation, these pictures I had never seen before. And the more I come to know about him, the more my stomach aches and the sicker I feel.

‘’He’s a mastermind, the puppeteer pulling the strings in the criminal underworld. He has connections everywhere, but we just don’t know about those. He has been a secret nobody has been able to unravel.”

She sighs while staring at me. I pick up another photo. “These victims we’ve seen so far are just the tip of the iceberg,” I mutter.

Crime scenes, bodies mutilated beyond recognition, each a testament to his organization.

“He’s not just after money or power, I am sure. He enjoys it. He revels in instilling fear. Look at these,” Ada says, showing me pictures of victims with the distinct mark of the Russian mafia carved onto their bodies.

My stomach churns as I look at the horrifying images. The reality of the darkness I had inadvertently stepped into is closing in on me. Suddenly, my phone buzzes. I freeze.

I smile at Ada before I dismiss myself for a bathroom break. But an eerie feeling washes over me once I see my phone light up.

Unknown:

You’re a very bad girl Isabella .

I hold my breath as I see him type. He is on the phone—right now. Texting me, staring at the same screen I am staring at. After what feels like hours pass, another message appears. I feel acid creep its way up as I read it.

And bad girls need to be punished.

Aslanov

Night blankets Moscow in darkness, the city’s heartbeat pulsing through the distant echoes of revelry. I step into the dimly lit entrance of a high-end club, where the bouncer gives a nod, recognizing the authority that follows me. The thumping bass reverberates through the air as I navigate the crowd, drawing subtle glances from those who understand the significance of my presence. The club, a sanctuary for the city’s elite, and the Bratva’s clandestine dealings pulse with life. My tailored suit, an immaculate ensemble of darkness, blends seamlessly with the ambiance. The air is thick with the scent of expensive perfumes and the faint whiff of cigars. I move with purpose, each stride commanding attention. In the VIP section, a private enclave reserved for those wielding power beyond the visible spectrum, my associates await. The dim lighting casts an air of secrecy over our gathering. Viktor and Dmitri—loyal enforcers who execute my will without question—raise their glasses in acknowledgment. I could use some vodka.

Viktor, a formidable figure with a shaved head and a scar that marks his left cheek, leans back in his chair. “Boss,” he greets, a subtle nod conveying the unspoken camaraderie between us.

Dmitri, the strategist with calculating eyes that betray the sharpness of his mind, inclines his head. “Aslanov.”

I nod back, filling my glass. As I take a seat, the atmosphere shifts. The club’s pulsating music fades into the background, a mere echo to the clandestine symphony of our discussion. Glasses clink, and the air hums with the exchange of crucial information. Viktor speaks first, his voice a low rumble.

“The message has been sent, Boss. Volkov’s demise reverberates through the ranks. The streets are talking. The police are, too.” I acknowledge his report with a nod, my gaze piercing the shadows that conceal our gathering. The city beyond the club’s walls bends to my influence, and the night is ripe with the potential for both chaos and control. Dmitri’s deep Russian voice cuts in.

“The alliances are holding, but there are whispers of challenges. Rivals testing the waters, seeking weaknesses.” The undercurrent of threat is met with a calculated response.

“Let them test,” I assert, my tone unwavering. “Our foundation is built on fear and loyalty. Let them discover the consequences of defiance.” I take a sip, the vodka burning down my throat. “The police are stirring. The Volkov incident has drawn attention. We need to tighten our grip on the loose ends.” The mention of the “loose end” ignites a simmering anger within me. Viktor and Dmitri exchange glances, sensing the subtle shift in my demeanor.

My eyes, usually unreadable, hint at a storm brewing beneath the surface. Viktor, either brave or oblivious to the rising tension, continues, “We’ll discreetly investigate. If there’s a mole, we’ll unearth them and neutralize the threat.” My grip tightens around the crystal-clear glass, and I take a sharp sip of the vodka, the fiery liquid doing little to quell the smoldering rage. Dmitri, attuned to the nuances of my moods, meets my gaze with unwavering resolve. But it’s Viktor’s next words that unleash the tempest. “Speaking of threats, there’s a new player in the game. A rival faction trying to muscle in on our territory.”

The predatory gleam in my eyes sharpens into a blaze of anger. The rivalry is an inconvenience, but the real threat—the loose end—claws at the edges of my composure. “Let them come,” I growl, my voice a low rumble of menace. My fingers drum rhythmically on the table, a barely contained manifestation of my impatience. Viktor, oblivious to the undercurrents, persists, “Boss, we need to control the narrative surrounding Volkov’s demise. Misdirect the authorities, throw them off the scent.” Dmitri nods in agreement. “Our tech experts are working on it. We’ll create a smokescreen they can’t penetrate.” “Good,” I reply, though my mind is elsewhere, consumed by thoughts of her. The darkness in my eyes deepens, and an ominous silence settles over the VIP section. Finally, I speak, my voice cutting through the air like a blade.

“There’s a particular loose end I’ll handle personally. This one requires my attention.”