Wine and Music Gladden the Heart
Chapter 28
Wine and Music Gladden the Heart
Isabella
The rest of the day unfolds with a sense of urgency and gravity that permeates the police department. I am seated at a desk alongside Ada, delving into the intricate web of files related to the New York Mafia. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a sterile glow on the sea of documents spread out before us. “This is a tough one, Isa. But we’re here to uphold the law and protect our city. We need to focus on gathering information that can lead us to dismantle this criminal network.” I slowly nod. A small feeling of guilt plays inside of me with every move I make.
My mind racing as I sift through the files. The complexities of organized crime unfold before me, each piece of information a puzzle that needs to be deciphered. As we piece together the connections, I can’t shake the feeling that I am racing against time, not only for the sake of justice but also for my safety. I could just tell them. I could tell them what he looked like, almost detailed. But I don’t and he must know, because he is taking a risk with me. Why would he do that?
The hum of activity in the department becomes a backdrop to me. Phone calls are made, databases are scoured, and leads are pursued with relentless determination. But I have the most present resource, the man himself, on my phone. The thought settles in me. If I want to know something I could ask him myself. I don’t need to investigate; he is giving me the ‘front row seat’.
The glow of the fluorescent lights cast a pale illumination over the files scattered on the desk. The urgency of our mission pushes me to set aside the conflicting emotions within me and focus on the task at hand.
As the evening descends, the department remains a hive of activity. Phone conversations echo around us, and the glow of computer screens illuminates the faces of officers working late into the night. The scent of coffee mingles with the sterile office air. Hours pass, and the lines between day and night blur as we go through the details of the investigation. But I am not fully here with my head. As the clock ticks toward the late hours, Ada and I decide to grab a quick dinner in the office. The break room becomes a makeshift dining area as we share a meal, discuss strategy, and exchange thoughts on the progress we’ve made. I mostly smile and nod at every comment. The clatter of cutlery against plates punctuates my brain. I yawn. I need to go home and take a hot shower. I say my goodbyes to the officers working late and to Ada. Snow falls onto my jacket as I step outside. It’s ice cold outside. While taking the subway back home I listen to some music at full volume. Making my way over the empty streets towards my apartment. I stop dead in my tracks as I notice a black Porsche, his car. And it’s parked outside of my apartment. My heart quickens as I stand there, the chill in the air seeping through my jacket. The sight of the black Porsche outside my apartment sends a shiver down my spine. The world around me seems to quiet down, leaving only the muffled sounds of distant traffic and the soft crunch of snow beneath my heels. A surge of conflicting emotions swirls within me—fear, curiosity, and a hint of anticipation. With cautious steps, I approach the car. The snowflakes dance around me, creating a surreal atmosphere as I reach the driver’s side. The darkened windows offer no glimpse, leaving me to grapple with the unknown. But I’m sure that it’s his car. I hesitate, considering my options. Taking a deep breath, I make my way to the entrance of the building. As I fumble with the keys to unlock the door, my hairs rise on my back.
The lobby is dimly lit, and the elevator’s soft chime resonates as I step inside. I can’t take the stairs; my heart will explode. The ride to my floor feels longer than usual, the anticipation building with every passing second. As the elevator doors open, I find myself facing the hallway leading to my apartment. The tension in the air is palpable, and my senses are heightened. I approach my apartment door cautiously, half-expecting him to appear at any moment. The key turns in the lock, and the door creaks open, revealing the familiar space within. I step inside, the warmth of the apartment a stark contrast to the cold outside. The apartment is eerily silent, and I can’t shake the feeling of being watched. I move through the rooms, checking every corner, half-expecting to find him there. I turn around to look at my desk and the chair, but he isn’t there. After scanning the entire place I cannot find him anywhere.
I take a hot shower, hoping to wash away the unease that clings to me. As the water cascades over me, I relax. Wrapping my wet hair in a towel, I peer out of the bathroom, half-expecting to find him standing there. The apartment remains still, and the silence is deafening. I am becoming crazy. They can almost take me to an asylum. I get my black pajamas on and leave my hair in the black towel wrapped around my head. I grab some red nail polish and start painting my fingers and toenails. After letting them dry and brushing my hair I exit the bathroom.
A high-pitched scream escaped my lips as come face to face with a dark and large figure in my kitchen, “What the fuck!” I place my hand on my chest, calming myself down. I stare at the dinner table; it’s decked for two. The apartment smells like heaven, and it takes me a while to realize he is the one cooking. I think my mouth is standing open for a couple of minutes because his finger reaches under my chin and pushes it up. “What are you doing?” I gape at the food. My stomach rumbles and I cannot deny that I have not had enough food at work. On my bare feet, I do not even reach his neck in height, and it makes me feel like a dwarf. The one from The Hobbit. I’m assuming that’s also how I look, just out of the shower.
He stirs the pan. “Cooking.” He simply answers, like he is the most normal person to ever walk the earth, like he didn’t just break into my apartment and cause a bloodbath last weekend.
“Aslanov,” his name slips from my lips, smoother than I expected. He turns to face me fully.
“Isabella,” he responds, his voice low and measured.
The way he says my name sends a shiver down my spine—a blend of familiarity and menace. His gaze locks onto mine, the intensity of his eyes unreadable, and the air between us crackles with unspoken tension. The weight of the past weekend, the bruises still fresh on my skin, and the unanswered questions hang heavily in the space between us.
Aslanov
“You seem slightly unwell,” I say, my tone laced with a hint of dark amusement. “I need to eat, after all. And despite what you might believe, I’m quite skilled in the kitchen. It might surprise you, but my interests extend beyond murder, torture, and blackmail.”
Her expression flickers with confusion as her eyes dart between the sumptuous spread before her and me. I’ve just finished plating the meal, each dish meticulously prepared. I approach the table with deliberate grace, setting down two plates and two glasses of red wine. “Sit,” I commanded, gesturing to the chair opposite mine.
Her steps are tentative as she walks to the chair and takes a seat. She stares at the steaming food, her unease palpable. “Did you poison this?” Her voice is edged with suspicion, her eyes fixed on me. I meet her gaze with a cold, unyielding stare. Even with her makeup-free face and wet hair, she remains the most captivating woman I’ve ever seen.
“No,” I reply, my voice steady and assertive. To assure her, I fork a piece of the food from her plate and taste it, followed by a bite from my own. The act is deliberate, a challenge, meant to dissolve her distrust. “I did not.”
Her fingers tremble slightly as she picks up her fork, and then she begins to eat. Each bite she takes is slower, more deliberate as if she’s testing the boundaries of my honesty. I watch her with a smile, satisfaction curling at the corners of my lips as she seems to find enjoyment in my cooking. The vulnerability she reveals, coupled with her hesitation, only adds to her allure.
Isabella
The food is delicious and fills my stomach with heat. I feel intimidated by his presence. I don’t know what to say.
“How was your workday?” I nearly choke on my food—it’s a sensitive topic. “Have you planned how you are going to arrest me yet, solnyshko?” He takes the fork into his mouth while my eyes pierce his. His gaze remains locked on me, as steady and unyielding as the steel of a guillotine.
I suddenly lose my appetite and drop my fork. I take the glass of wine and chug it down in one go, “No, would you mind helping me with that?” I state sarcastically with a fake smile.
I need more wine if we are having this conversation. I walk back to retrieve the entire bottle, pouring myself another glass. His dark gaze follows me back to the table, once I sit down again his expression darkens, and without warning, his hand slams down on the table. The sound is deafening, making me flinch. “One more slip of the tongue, and I’ll remind you of your place.” The threat is palpable, sending a wave of fear through me. The bruises from our last encounter still throb, a painful reminder of his power.
“Sorry,” I mumble while avoiding eye contact. He knows he is controlling me. Because I could reveal his identity to anyone, but I have not. I have not said a single thing.
There is a silence for a little while between us before I gather my last bit of courage.
“Did you cause the scene in Seventh Street the weekend with the New York mafia?” The questions escaped my lips faster than I thought, but his answer was just as fast.
Causing surprise in my face, “Yes, I did.”
I stare at him. “Why?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Well, well, solnyshko, not so fast now.” He takes a sip of his wine while keeping eye contact with me. I can feel the tension thickening with every second he stares at me. He taps a finger against the rim of his glass. “Tell me, Isabella. Do you think your colleagues would still welcome you with open arms if they knew how much you’ve kept from them? How often you’ve hesitated? How often you’ve protected me —even if only by your silence?”
I open my mouth to respond, but no words come.
“You think they’ll look at you and see anything but a traitor? A liability?”
I shake my head, trying to find my voice, but he presses on, each syllable cutting deeper than the last.
“No, solnyshko,” he continues, his tone darkly soothing, as though explaining a cruel truth to a child. “When they find out how you’ve danced on this razor’s edge, when they realize how much you’ve withheld, they won’t pat you on the head and call it even. They’ll throw you into the filthiest, darkest cell they can find. Sentence you for the betrayal of the highest order.”
My breath catches, and I stare at him, my stomach twisting into knots.
“They’ll strip you of everything,” he whispers, his gaze locking onto mine, predatory and unrelenting. “Your dignity, your freedom, your very name. You’ll rot in there, Isabella. Forgotten. Alone.”
A cold shiver races down my spine, and the fragile thread of my courage snaps. “Then why are you here?” I whisper, my voice barely audible.
The air in the room thickens as his words settle like a dark cloud. Aslanov’s presence dominates the space, his gaze a sharp blade that cuts through my composure. He leans back in his chair, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk that doesn’t reach his cold, calculating eyes.
“Why am I here?” he repeats, his tone a silky taunt, like a spider coaxing its prey closer. “Isn’t it obvious, solnyshko? I’m the one with the power here.”
I swallow hard, my mind racing, but my words come out steady. “I could tell them,” I say, meeting his gaze with a challenge, “I could reveal who you are to the whole department. Your identity, your face... everything.”
His smirk doesn’t falter, though the darkness in his eyes deepens. “And yet,” he says with a chilling calmness, “You haven’t.”
A shaky breath escapes me, and before I can stop it, a tear slips down my cheek. I wipe it away quickly, hoping he hasn’t seen it, but I know he has. I meet his gaze, and the intensity in his eyes sends a chill through my veins. He doesn’t just see me; he sees every crack in my resolve, every flaw, every ounce of weakness. And he’s savoring it.
“Will you spare me?”
“That depends,” he murmurs, his voice a dangerous caress. “Are you willing to beg for it?” His eyes narrow, a predatory glint in them. “Crawl,” he commands, his voice a cold, irresistible force.
The command sends a shiver of dread and reluctant excitement through me. I get down, the room spinning slightly as I crouch down. Every inch towards him feels like a descent into a darker reality, yet there’s an undeniable pull, a part of me that wants to surrender.