Chapter 1Ghosts Don’t Bleed
Ghosts Don’t Bleed
Aslanov
The night they faked my death, I wished, if I’d known what was coming, that the bullet had been real.
I can’t move, I’m sedated, physically.
The gunshot echoes against the cracked walls of the abandoned prison, bouncing off rusted beams and shattered windows before dissolving into silence. I hit the ground hard, the cold concrete unforgiving beneath me.
A bomb explodes close to me, releasing a wave of heat through the building.
A man in a dark suit lowers the pistol, exhaling slowly. The air is thick with the acrid scent of cordite and the coppery tang of blood. My blood? No, not mine.
The execution is staged perfectly. The cameras capture everything: my supposed shooting, the muffled sobs, the fire, the false hope that clings to my breath. The Bratva will mourn their lost king. The world will move on. Aslanov Ivanov Karamazov is dead.
Except I am not.
A door creaks open at the far end of the warehouse. Two figures emerge from the shadows, their faces masked by the flickering glow of a single, buzzing bulb. One of them crouches beside me, pressing gloved fingers against my throat. His touch is clinical, practiced.
“A pulse,” he murmurs, his voice flat. “Faint, but steady.”
“Move him,” the other orders.
Rough hands grip my arms, dragging my limp form across the cement floor.
My head lolls to one side. The movement sends sharp pain splintering through my skull, but I do not react.
Blood, fake, yet convincing, soaks the front of my shirt, its scent mingling with the industrial staleness of the prison air.
The bullet had missed, a deliberate near-miss crafted for the security cameras.
Multiple dead bodies, real dead bodies, are carried out within minutes of the abandoned factory. The floor is strewn with bullet casings.
Nick steps into my fading field of vision, watching as his men load me onto a stretcher.
His face is an unreadable mask, but his dark eyes gleam with satisfaction.
Everything has gone exactly as he planned.
His phone screen glows as he checks for confirmation.
Within minutes, the world will believe I am rotting in an unmarked grave.
The truth is far worse.
Hands grip the stretcher, lifting me with practiced ease. I am cargo now, an illusion wrapped in flesh and blood.
The acrid scent of gasoline thickens in the air.
A faint flicker of orange glows beyond my closed eyelids, growing brighter, hotter.
The fire spreads fast, licking hungrily at the decayed wood and rusted beams. Smoke clogs my lungs, but I do not cough, do not move.
The prison is being erased, purged in flames.
They are making sure there is nothing left.
The heat presses closer, sweat dampening my skin, but the men carrying me do not falter.
Outside, the night air is a cruel contrast, biting at my exposed skin as I am loaded into a vehicle.
The metallic clang of doors shutting echoes in my skull.
The engine rumbles beneath me, the road unrolling into oblivion.
Time fractures. I drift in and out, consciousness slipping through my fingers like sand. A needle pricks my arm, another dose, another pull into darkness.
Something is covering my eyes: a thick blindfold, tied too tightly, pressing into my skin.
My wrists and ankles are bound, the heavy steel biting into flesh.
A low hum vibrates through the space around me.
An aircraft. The steady turbulence of the engines tells me I am in the air, moving fast, moving far.
The last thing I remember is the cold Russian ground beneath my back, the scent of blood and gunpowder.
Now, the air is filtered, sterile, too clean.
The pressure in my ears changes slightly, signaling altitude shifts.
The ear muffles they forced onto me block out nearly all external noise, leaving me trapped in the void of my own thoughts.
My body is sore, muscles stiff from immobility.
They drugged me, I can taste the bitterness still clinging to my tongue, can feel the sluggish way my blood moves through my veins.
How long have I been unconscious? Hours? A day? More?
They don’t want me to know where I am. That much is clear. They’ve erased every sense of direction, every clue that could lead me to an answer. But one truth is undeniable: I am no longer in Russia. They wouldn’t go to this extent for a simple relocation. This is something bigger.
The plane dips slightly, the engines shifting pitch. We are descending. My jaw tightens.
America. It has to be.
Pain is my first companion when I wake. It clings to me like a second skin, seeping into every nerve ending, branding itself deep into my bones. It is not a dull ache. It is sharp, relentless, gnawing at my flesh like starving wolves tearing into a carcass.
The darkness is suffocating. It stretches in every direction, pressing against me like a living thing, wrapping around my throat, crawling beneath my skin.
There is no light, no window, no concept of time.
The air is thick, stagnant, carrying the stench of mildew, rust, and old blood.
Dampness clings to my clothes, my skin, chilling me to the bone.
The walls are rough, uneven stone, their jagged edges scraping against my back whenever I shift. But shifting is a luxury.
The chains rattle as I move, just slightly.
Heavy iron shackles dig into my wrists and ankles, bolted directly to the cold concrete floor.
They allow me only enough movement to curl into myself, but not enough to stand, not enough to stretch.
The metal has rubbed my skin raw, the wounds festering in the filth of this place.
My fingers twitch, stiff from the cold and the tightness of my restraints.
I flex them slowly, feeling the cuts along my knuckles, the skin torn open from struggling against the steel bindings.
My mouth is dry, my tongue heavy like lead.
The taste of blood lingers, thick and metallic, coating the roof of my mouth.
My lips are cracked, a sharp pain flaring as I press them together.
My stomach twists, empty, hollow. I don’t remember the last time I ate.
I don’t remember the last time I drank water that wasn’t mixed with whatever foul liquid they poured down my throat to keep me conscious.
A voice breaks through the silence.
“Enjoying your new casket?”
The heavy clang of a metal door swinging open reverberates through the tiny cell. A sliver of dull, yellow light spills in, illuminating the dust in the air before it is swallowed by the oppressive blackness again. The scent of cigarette smoke drifts in before the door slams shut behind him.
Nick.
His boots scrape against the floor as he steps closer, the sound cruel in its familiarity. I can’t see his face, but I know his smirk is there. It always is.
“You sacrificing yourself wasn’t something I saw coming,” he muses, his tone casual, almost amused. “But I’m glad you did, it made it so easy for me.”
He crouches in front of me, the warmth of his presence making my skin crawl.
A hand grips my chin, fingers pressing into my jaw with bruising force, tilting my head upward even though I cannot see him clearly in the dark.
His breath, thick with whiskey and smoke, fans across my face.
His grip tightens, his nails biting into my skin.
“I could have turned you in, but it’s more personal this way. Using you as I please, in secret.”
I don’t react. My ribs ache with every shallow breath, my body weak, battered, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of a flinch.
Nick exhales sharply, a quiet chuckle in the dark. “You think you can endure this?” He lets go of my face, standing again. I hear the rustle of fabric, the shift of weight. “Your men will obey me. Your empire will rise again. And when it does, I’ll take over. I’ll kill your last replacement.”
I hear something metallic scrape against the floor, the sharp clink of a chain being tested.
“You’ve already lost your life in the outside world,” he continues, his voice filled with mock sympathy.
“You wondered where Petrov was? Right here, weeks before your arrival. One of your ‘trusted lieutenants’, the one we captured, helped me catch him, and locate you.” This filthy rat.
He smirks, the burned scar on his neck twitching with the motion. “You were so consumed by hatred and suspicion, you never realized it wasn’t Petrov sabotaging your transport routes.” His eyes gleam with cold satisfaction.
“Your entire Bratva will fall into my hands, and Moscow, no, everything beyond that, will belong to me. There will be none of you to stop me.”
Then his tone shifts, becoming something far crueler. “And you will listen, Aslanov. Because if you don’t…” He pauses, as if savoring the moment. “I have contacts outside, men who could easily get to her.”
A sharp spike of ice lances through my chest. I do not react outwardly, but inside, I burn.
Isabella.
The thought of her, the memory of her voice, her touch, is a fragile thing against the darkness consuming me.
She is warmth, light, something I have never deserved but will kill to protect.
If Nick lays a hand on her, if he so much as breathes near her, there will be no force on this earth that will save him from me.
My breathing is slow, controlled, even as fury builds beneath the surface. My fingers twitch, itching for the feel of a weapon, for the weight of a gun, a blade, anything to cut this bastard apart piece by piece. My nails dig into my palm, the pain grounding me in the moment.
Nick steps closer again, the toe of his polished boot nudging against my ribs. “She’s a weakness, you know,” he murmurs. “And I love exploiting weaknesses, especially against men like you. A man who I never thought would have one.”
Silence stretches between us. He wants me to speak, to lash out, to give him something.
Instead, I let out a slow, ragged breath, my lips curling into a bloodied smirk. My tongue swipes across my teeth, the metallic taste of iron thick on my tongue.
Nick believes he has won. He thinks this is the end.
But he doesn’t understand what he has started.
This is not my ending.
It will be his. An inevitable conclusion written in blood.
A hoarse chuckle escapes my throat, raw and taunting. My voice is barely above a whisper, but it carries enough weight to make him pause.
“You’ve already made your first mistake.”
Nick raises an eyebrow, though I can’t see it, I can hear the curiosity in his silence. “And what’s that?”
I force a grin, my cracked lips splitting further. My voice is quiet, but it is laced with something deadly.
“You let me live.”