The Choice
Chapter 32
The Choice
Isabella
The doctor’s hands shake as he works, his every movement tinged with fear. His fingers probe my side gently, trying to assess the damage as sweat trickles down his forehead. I feel the sting of alcohol and the pressure of bandages being wrapped around my torso. But it’s not the physical pain that dominates my thoughts—it’s Aslanov. His presence feels more suffocating than the wounds themselves.
The barrel of the gun hovers just outside the doctor’s line of vision, but the threat is omnipresent. Aslanov stands at the edge of the small room, his eyes never leaving the doctor’s trembling hands, as if calculating how many more mistakes he can tolerate before pulling the trigger. The air is thick with tension, and even though Aslanov isn’t speaking, his silence screams louder than any words.
I try to breathe through the pain, focusing on the rhythmic movements of the doctor’s hands as he applies a layer of gauze to my wounds. But the ache in my ribs intensifies with every inhale, and the tightness in my chest is unbearable.
Aslanov steps closer, looming over the doctor like a shadow of death. His gaze sweeps over the mess of blood and gauze, and I catch a glint in his eye—something cold, analytical. He’s not just watching to intimidate; he’s making sure the doctor doesn’t dare fail him.
“How bad is it?” Aslanov’s voice is a low, menacing growl.
The doctor jumps, startled by the sudden question. His face pales, and his eyes dart to mine before he answers. “She…she’s stable for now,” he stammers, voice shaky. “But she needs rest, proper care—this is only a temporary fix. Without a hospital, without more equipment-”
Aslanov’s patience snaps again. In one swift movement, he presses the barrel of the gun harder against the doctor’s temple, forcing him to freeze mid-sentence. “I don’t give a damn about what you don’t have,” he hisses, his voice so low it’s almost a whisper. “I asked how bad it is. Not what you need.”
The doctor swallows hard, his hands trembling as he carefully sets down a bloodied bandage. “I-I’ve done what I can. She’ll be in pain, but…but she should be okay if she rests.” He dares a glance at me, and I can see the pity in his eyes, mixed with terror. “She’ll need to avoid infection, and there could be complications—”
“Enough,” Aslanov interrupts, his tone laced with dangerous finality. He pulls the gun away from the doctor’s head, but the threat remains thick in the air. “You’ve done what you can. Now, leave.”
The doctor blinks in disbelief, his hands still trembling. “Leave?” he echoes, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I-I should stay, in case…”
Aslanov’s eyes narrow into slits, and the look he gives the doctor is lethal. “I said leave ,” he repeats, his voice dripping with venom.
For a moment, the doctor hesitates, clearly terrified of what will happen if he stays but equally afraid of what might occur if he leaves too soon. He casts a fleeting, desperate glance at me, his face pleading for permission—permission I can’t give. I have no power here. I never did.
With a final, reluctant nod, the doctor gathers his tools, his hands still trembling as he hastily shoves them into his bag. He shoots one last terrified look at Aslanov before practically sprinting out of the room, leaving behind only the smell of antiseptic and the sharp echo of the door slamming shut behind him.
And then it’s just me and Aslanov.
The silence is deafening now, only broken by the sound of my ragged breaths. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat sending fresh pain rippling through my ribs. I can feel Aslanov’s eyes on me, watching, calculating, his presence a cold and oppressive weight.
He walks toward me slowly, his steps deliberate, as if savoring the moment. When he reaches my side, he crouches down, leveling his eyes with mine. There’s something terrifyingly intimate about the way he looks at me—like I’m both a fragile doll and a dangerous puzzle he’s trying to solve.
He reaches out and gently brushes a strand of hair away from my face, his touch unnervingly soft. “You did well, Isabella,” he murmurs, his voice smooth and deceptively tender. “So obedient. So brave.”
The words make my stomach twist, a strange mixture of fear and something else entirely. The praise feels…wrong, but a part of me craves it, even though I know I shouldn’t. Even though I know the darkness behind his words. Aslanov reaches for the nightstand, his movements slow, deliberate, as if he’s trying to prolong this moment. He picks up a flower from the bouquet I’d gathered earlier, its vibrant pink petals standing out against the dim room.
“Do you see this flower, Isabella?” His voice is low, almost hypnotic, drawing my tear-filled gaze to him. I nod, the simple motion making my throat tighten even more.
He holds the flower out to me, his hand large and imposing, the flower fragile and delicate in comparison. Hesitantly, I reach for it, my fingers brushing against his, and I’m struck by how small my hand is against his. How innocent, how untouched I am compared to the darkness that clings to him like a second skin.
“There is nothing on this earth that blooms all year long, Isabella,” he says, his voice a deep, unsettling murmur. “Not this flower, not you. It’s not in your nature. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
The words hit me like a hammer to the chest, cracking open something inside me. It’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me, and coming from him, it’s almost unbearable. A small, sad smile tugs at my lips, tears brimming in my eyes, and I wonder how someone so cruel can speak with such tenderness. How his words can make me feel safe even when I know he’s anything but.
“Why did you intentionally come here?” I ask while not wanting to know the answer to that question.
His chest vibrates against mine as his voice cuts through the silence, “I’m leaving.” His answer comes out unusual. Usually, he is collected and calm. His answer sounds the exact opposite.
A sad smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes appears on my lips. “I thought you’d come to wipe the loose end from the earth.”
It’s quiet for a while until he replies, “I thought so too.” After another silence he adds, “But I cannot. That means you’ll be the only loose end running around with that red ponytail of yours. So, if something leaks out, I will know where to find you.”
A small laughter escapes my throat, “So you have indeed forgiven me?”
He stares down at me, “Seems like I have indeed done that.”
Aslanov
My eyes travel to the packed bag in the corner of the room. I do not need to ask her where she was planning on going, I know she doesn’t know. She’s running, grasping at the hope that somewhere, anywhere, is better than the hell she’s been living in. But there’s a stark reality she hasn’t accepted yet—there’s no escaping what’s coming for her. There is no escaping her past, she can only influence her present.
“I’m leaving in a couple of hours.” I pause before rethinking what I am going to say, and what I am going to offer her. My voice is measured, and cold, but there’s an undercurrent of something else—something dangerous. I pause, carefully considering my next words, knowing that what I’m about to offer is reckless, unprecedented. It’s something I don’t do.
“I’ll be at 10th Street until 1 p.m. After that, I’m gone. So, if you want to leave this miserable city, you know where to find me.”
Her brows furrow as she follows my gaze towards her bag.
“But after that, you can run or hide, I’ll always find you. You can bleed, scream, and beg me all you want, but once you’re mine, ” I pause, staring at her, making sure she hears me loud and clear. “You are mine. You will fall under my command and my rule. There is no such thing as departing our ways after that.”
I don’t wait for her to respond. She’s paralyzed by the gravity of what I’ve just laid out for her. I can see the fear in her eyes, the uncertainty, but there’s something else there too—a flicker of something raw, something dark, that tells me she’s considering it.
“Nothing will stop me. Either put an end to it now by staying here or agree to the terms.”
I am not going to force her. If she chooses to come, I will have to let her into my life. She will have to accept she will become a part of it. She is going to be taken into a world full of darkness. It’s different there. People will wonder who she is. People will lower their gaze and stay silent in my presence, but on the streets, the word will spread. I have never been seen before with another woman for the past ten years. It will cause a reaction from not only my men but from other allies too. There is no denying anymore that my feelings are everything but shallow for her.
She knows who I am and what I am capable of, what I am involved in. Even though we never really spoke about it, it lingers in the air. She reads it herself, sees the news, and hears it all around. I am anything but a good man. There’s no glamor in this. It’s a world where silence speaks louder than words, and where loyalty is tested in ways most people can’t fathom. She will become a Karamazov , my responsibility, my charge. And with that comes a vulnerability, a chink in the armor I’ve worn for a decade.
Yet, I don’t seem to care about that.
The room lingers in an atmosphere heavy with unspoken decisions as I stand up, looking at Isabella. The weight of our conversation hangs between us, and I sense that she needs time to process the gravity of the choices before her.
“Why?”
I frown, rubbing my jaw, feeling the rough stubble beneath my fingers. “Why what?”
Her eyes hold mine, searching for something I’m not sure I can give. “Why would you do this for me? Why do you grant me these things?”
I can feel the weight of her question pressing down on me, the way her gaze pierces through me, cutting past the layers I’ve spent years building. I don’t know how to answer her. I never have answers for things like this.
I take a breath, shifting my stance, and glance away for a second, trying to steady the chaos in my mind. She’s waiting for something real, something I don’t give—something I can’t give.
But the truth claws its way up, demanding to be heard. The words leave me before I can stop them.
“I don’t know,” I mutter, the admission scraping out of my throat, rough and unpolished. “I don’t know how to control this. How I feel about you.”
I curse myself for sounding weak, for letting anything slip through the cracks of my control. Control is what I am. It’s what keeps me safe. But around her... nothing works the way it should.
“I never do this,” I continue, my voice low, almost as if the admission itself is a betrayal.
She looks at me with those pained eyes. “I believe I resonate with you—” I pause before finishing my sentence carefully, “—and your pain.”
She doesn’t realize it, but she holds the kind of power over me that I can’t stand—because I can’t understand it. And she will never know, I will never tell her that.
She is at loss for words, trying to scramble them up from the bottom of the ocean, but nothing follows. I’m sure my interest in her frightens her.
“I have some business to attend to before I leave,” I say, breaking the silence. I retrieve my suit jacket, the fabric rustling as I slip it on. The room feels colder, the air thick with the tension of impending farewells. My gaze softens as I reach out to stroke her hair gently, a gesture laden with a complex mix of intimacy and detachment. “If you choose not to come, understand that our paths will diverge permanently,” I murmur, my tone firm but tinged with a hint of regret.
“Our worlds will be separated, and I trust that you’ll carry our secrets to the grave.” She meets my eyes, a silent acknowledgment of the weight of what we’ve shared. “Think carefully.” I stare at her bruised face, “You ran from me before, but after this, you will never be able to run from me again,” I add. I take one last, lingering look at her, committing her to memory as she is now, knowing that if she comes with me, she will never be the same again. With a final stroke of her hair, I turn away, the door creaking open as I step into the dim corridor. The weight of my responsibilities pulls me back to the world that I inhabit—a world of shadows and blood, of power and control.
As I walk away, the echo of her silence follows me, a haunting reminder of the choice that now lies in her hands. Whether she follows me or stays behind, the consequences will be dire, but either way, I know one thing for certain—I will never truly be free of her, and she will never truly escape me.
Isabella
I swallow hard, his words echoing in my mind like a death sentence. The weight of his offer, the gravity of what he’s suggesting—it’s too much. I feel like I’m teetering on the edge of a cliff, the abyss of his world yawning wide beneath me.
I would be a fool to even consider going with him, to let myself be dragged into the heart of his darkness, all the way to fucking Moscow. A fool to willingly step into his web, to give myself over to him so completely.
My heart pounds against my ribcage, each beat a reminder of the danger I’m flirting with. Confusion swirls in my tear-stained eyes, mixing with fear, anger, and something else—something I can’t quite name. His gaze is piercing, cutting through all the chaos inside me. It’s as if he’s offering me something more than just protection, more than just an escape. There’s an intensity in his eyes, a depth that’s almost frightening in its sincerity. But beneath that, I see the darkness—the same darkness that’s always been there, lurking just beneath the surface.
I replay the events of the past few minutes, the tension, the way his words wrapped around me like chains. Moscow is a name that feels distant, yet terrifyingly real. It’s not just a place—it’s the very heart of his empire, a labyrinth of power and violence that I have no business being anywhere near. I try to imagine what it would be like there, what he would be like in that place, surrounded by his people, his enemies. Would he still be the man I’ve come to know, or would he become something even more monstrous?
And why does he care for me? Is it a mere manipulation tactic or is there a raw interest?
The rational part of me knows I should run, that I should never have anything to do with him again. He’s not just any man—he’s one of the world’s most wanted criminals, a man whose very name sends shivers down the spine of anyone who knows who he is. The thought of being associated with him, of being pulled into his world, makes my skin crawl. And yet, his offer lingers in the air between us like a poisonous temptation, like an unspoken promise of something I can’t quite resist. I mean there isn’t another place I would be able to go to, I’m out of options. I don’t feel safe here either, my stepfather walks around in the same city where I live. I don’t think I can encounter him again—ever.
My thoughts spiral, racing through the countless dangers that await me if I choose to go with him. A life entangled with the Russian mafia, a world I’ve only ever glimpsed in nightmares. The consequences are staggering, the risks insurmountable. Yet, no matter how much I try to push the thought away, I can’t shake the image of him from my mind. He moves through the shadows with a grace that’s both terrifying and mesmerizing, and I know that once he sets his sights on something—or someone—he won’t stop until he gets it.
I haven’t been able to get him out of my mind for months. Even when I knew I should forget him, even when I knew I should be terrified, he’s haunted me. I know the authorities are closing in on him, and yet there’s a part of me that doubts they’ll ever catch him. He’s too clever, too ruthless. And instead of feeling relief at the thought of him being brought to justice, I feel something else—something darker, something that makes me question my own sanity.
Honestly, I think I’m losing my mind. The fact that I’m even considering his offer, that I’m here thinking about what it would mean to go with him, is enough to make me wonder if I’m already insane. It’s like I’m on the verge of signing away my soul, and I can’t even bring myself to stop. What the hell am I going to do?
The room feels like it’s closing in on me, the air thick with tension and uncertainty. My hands tremble as I clench them into fists, trying to hold onto some semblance of control, but it’s slipping through my fingers like sand. The decision I must make feels impossible, like a choice between life and death, between freedom and damnation.
But as much as I try to tell myself that I should stay, that I should let him walk out that door and never see him again, there’s a part of me—a dark, twisted part—that can’t bear the thought of having to forget him. And that part of me, that sick, desperate part, is screaming at me to leap, to follow him into the unknown, no matter how dangerous it might be.
Because deep down, I know that if I don’t, I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering what might have happened. Wondering if I made the right choice, or if I let fear rule me. And I’m not sure I can live with that kind of regret.
I feel the tears welling up in my eyes again, but I blink them back, refusing to let them fall. I can’t afford to be weak right now. Not when the most dangerous man I’ve ever known is offering me a chance—however twisted it might be—to step into his world. And maybe, just maybe, to find out what it’s like to truly belong to someone.
Even if that someone is a monster.
Aslanov
As I approach Tenth Street, the atmosphere changes; the air becomes thicker, the silence more profound. The storefronts conceal the clandestine dealings that shape the underbelly of the city. My presence here is expected, my authority unquestioned. The men who linger in the shadows nod in acknowledgment as I pass, a silent understanding passing between us.
She is still on my mind, just like she has been for months now. I haven’t forgotten about it, the person who did this to her will pay with their life. Soon, but first this.
Entering a discreet establishment, the scent of cigar smoke and whispered conversations envelop me. It’s a place where alliances are forged and betrayals planned, a microcosm of the power struggles within the Russian mafia. I exchange terse words with my associates, finalizing details, and ensuring that the delicate balance of power remains intact in my absence. Moscow awaits, and the machinations of the underworld must continue in my stead.
The room is filled with a tense energy as plans are set in motion. The faces around me carry the weight of their own secrets, a reflection of the shadows we all inhabit.
As I make my last arrangements, I’m aware that my departure will leave a void, and the city will remember my presence.
I take a seat next to the window, ordering a coffee. I wait. I stare at the Rolex on my wrist, it’s 12:30 p.m.