Chapter 20Whispers of the Core
Whispers of the Core
Aslanov
They come for me again.
The door groans open, the rusted hinges screeching like a wounded animal.
Two figures step inside, the same ones as always.
Their presence is familiar now, as routine as the cold seeping into my bones.
The broad one grips my arm, his fingers pressing deep enough to bruise, while the leaner one unlocks the chain at my ankle.
They don’t speak. They don’t need to.
I don’t resist as they haul me up, though my muscles scream in protest. The weeks, or months, of confinement have left me weaker, my movements sluggish.
My wrists are yanked forward, shackles biting into torn skin as they tighten the cuffs.
Blood trickles from the fresh friction, but I don’t flinch.
Pain is constant here. It has become a part of me.
They march me down the corridor, the damp air thick with the scent of mildew and rust. The floor is uneven beneath my bare feet, cold stone rough against my skin. I focus on the rhythm of my steps; one after the other, steady, measured. It’s the only control I have left.
But control isn’t just about endurance. It’s about knowledge.
I force my mind to sharpen, pushing past the haze of exhaustion. I need to know everything.
I scan my surroundings with careful precision, committing every detail to memory.
The corridor is long, narrow, and lined with doors, thick, reinforced metal with small, grated windows at eye level. Some are slightly ajar, revealing darkened rooms beyond. Others remain sealed, bolted shut.
The locks are industrial-grade, keypad access on some, manual locks on others. I note the wear and tear on the hinges, the rust creeping into the metal. Weak points.
The ceiling is low, pipes running along it in thick, tangled clusters. Exposed. If I could get my hands free, I might be able to use them.
The walls are concrete, cracked in places, damp seeping through from somewhere above. Basement level. Underground.
There are no windows.
No natural light.
I glance at the floor, searching for drains, any sign of ventilation. There, near the wall, a small grate, barely enough to fit a hand through.
Signs hang at intervals, peeling paint revealing older lettering beneath. Some are standard; warnings, identification numbers, room designations. Others are more telling. Emergency exit routes.
There.
At the far end of the hallway, above a heavy door, a faded sign: EXIT.
But it’s reinforced. Stronger than the rest. Probably alarmed.
I shift my attention to the guards escorting me. The broad one walks slightly ahead, the leaner one behind. Standard formation. Their boots echo against the concrete, their posture rigid but comfortable—routine. They’ve done this before.
Weapons? None visible. But their belts carry keys, a radio, maybe a knife.
One chance. That’s all I’ll get.
I keep walking, head down, expression blank.
But I see everything.
And when the moment comes, I will be ready.
We come to a stop.
The door before me is open, waiting.
Inside, a single chair sits in the center of the room. I’ve been here before, countless times now, and whenever I go here it isn’t for a happy jolly cup of tea with Nick. It doesn’t take me long to register the man standing next to the chair bolted into the floor.
He stands with his hands in his pockets, posture relaxed, composed. His sleeves are rolled up just enough to reveal a single tattoo on his forearms; calculated intimidation.
I watch him, just as he watches me.
Nick isn’t just a dirty fed playing criminal. He’s something else. Something deeper.
His torment isn’t random. It’s precise. The way he speaks, the way he controls a room, the way he strips a man down piece by piece, this isn’t just experience. This is expertise.
He’s not a thug. Not some low-level enforcer throwing punches to get what he wants.
He understands pain. He knows how to wield it.
That means he’s been in places like this before. Maybe on the other side of the chair. Maybe somewhere worse.
I don’t know where he learned this, but it wasn’t in some government training program. It wasn’t from sitting behind a desk, pushing papers.
His eyes flick over me, assessing. Searching for signs of weakness.
Then, he nods toward the chair.
“Sit.”
I don’t move.
The first blow is swift, precise, a fist to my gut. Enough to hurt, not to break. The air rushes from my lungs, my ribs igniting with fresh pain, but I stay upright. I will not give him the satisfaction of crumbling.
The guards shove me forward, forcing me down into the chair. The cold metal presses into my spine, the restraints locking around my wrists before I can adjust. Trapped. Helpless.
Nick exhales through his nose, stepping closer.
“You know why you’re here.”
I meet his gaze, silent.
He crouches in front of me, elbows resting on his knees, tilting his head slightly as if studying a puzzle; one he intends to dismantle piece by piece.
“You and I both know how this ends, Aslanov.” His tone is even, almost patient. “You can make it easier. Or you can make it much, much worse.”
I don’t respond.
Nick nods, unfazed. He expected this.
“Fine. Let’s start simple.” He leans back on his heels. “Tell me about the Bratva’s leadership.”
His voice is casual, but I know better. This is what he truly wants.
“Who are your Brigadiers? The ones running operations in different cities?”
I smirk. A slow, deliberate response.
Nick moves fast. His fist collides with my ribs, the same spot as before. Pain flares through my side, sharp and unforgiving, but I swallow it down. I breathe through it.
This is the game we play.
Nick sighs, stretching his fingers. “That was a warm-up.”
He straightens, rolling his shoulders.
“Let’s try again. Who are the Avtoritets enforcing your will? Who can be bought? Who can be eliminated?”
Silence.
The next hit snaps my head to the side, knuckles cracking against my jaw. My vision darkens at the edges, a sharp ringing in my ears.
Nick shakes out his hand, exhaling. Not frustrated. Not yet.
He steps behind me, close enough that I feel his breath against my ear.
“The money.”
His voice drops lower.
“Where is it?”
He walks around the chair, slowly, deliberately. Circling me.
“The Bratva’s real fortune. Offshore accounts. Crypto wallets. Shell companies.” His gaze sharpens. “Who controls it? Who handles the transfers? The accountants? The politicians?”
The edges of my vision blur. Blood trickles from my split lip, the coppery taste thick on my tongue.
Still, I give him nothing.
I like to make him work for it.
I enjoy the pain, the only feeling that’s left.
Nick watches me for a moment, then sighs. He’s patient, but patience has limits.
Nick exhales, shaking his head. He paces slowly, considering his next approach. Then, his tone shifts.
“Fine. Let’s talk about the people who let you get away with all of this.”
He turns back toward me.
“Which cops, which judges, which politicians are in your pocket?” His voice lowers. “What kind of dirt does the Bratva have on them?”
I don’t answer.
His patience is fraying now, I can see it in the slight tension in his jaw.
Nick watches me for a long moment. Then, he speaks again.
“The Vor v Zakone.”
The highest-ranking thieves. The silent kings of our world, me. Or it used to be me, I’m a dead man now.
I gave him information before, carefully chosen pieces—Izmaylovsky Park, Taganskaya.
Places far from here, far from him. Operations in Moscow, territories he can’t touch overnight.
If he wants to break the Bratva, he’ll have to plan, infiltrate, wait.
It was information I could give him to keep him satisfied all while protecting my empire.
But that’s not what he wants.
“Enough with the distant targets.” His voice is sharp now, edged with something like irritation. “I want names. I want locations. I want something here. In America.”
I don’t talk unless she’s threatened.
Suddenly Nick takes something from his pocket.
A small glass vial.
The liquid inside catches the dim light, a faint amber hue swirling as he tilts it slightly. I see it before I see the needle.
Something inside me twists.
I know what this is.
Nick crouches in front of me, rolling the syringe between his fingers, the needle glinting under the flickering overhead light. He watches me like a man testing the sharpness of a blade, measuring the moment before the first cut.
He gestures with his chin, and the two men flanking me step forward.
One of them pulls a length of rubber tubing from his pocket, stretching it between his hands before looping it around my upper arm. He yanks it tight, his fingers digging into my skin as he knots it off. The pressure clamps down on my bicep, making my veins swell beneath my skin.
Nick exhales, pressing his thumb against the crook of my arm, searching for the vein. His touch is clinical, practiced. Not the fumbling of a thug trying to play doctor. No, he’s done this before.
His fingers find what they’re looking for, and he doesn’t hesitate. The needle presses against my skin. A sharp sting. A slow push.
The cold rush spreads instantly, sinking into my bloodstream like ice.
I swallow hard, trying to brace myself, but it’s useless. My pulse pounds against my skull, a deep, insistent drumbeat that echoes through my body. The drug takes hold fast, dragging me under like an unseen current, pulling me away from solid ground.
My body is still wrecked, still screaming with pain, but my mind—
My mind is slipping.
I clench my jaw, trying to hold on, trying to fight it, but my thoughts start to stretch, unravel, spilling into one another like ink bleeding through paper.
Nick waits.
‘‘This,’’ Nick says, his voice low and almost too calm, ‘‘is sodium thiopental. It’s a truth serum, or at least that’s what they call it. You’ll speak, Aslanov.’’
“I’ve seen it work,” Nick continues, his voice almost matter-of-fact.
I could withstand the beatings, the cold, the hunger.
But he’s not threatening me. He’s threatening her.
I exhale, slow and measured. My head drops back against the chair as I force my lips to move. My voice is hoarse, broken. The drug is taking over my body.
“Brighton Beach.”
Nick stills.
I close my eyes, jaw clenched as I speak through the throbbing ache in my skull.
“You want something in America? Start there.”
A pause. Then, quietly—“Go on.”
I swallow against the blood in my throat. It’s information I can afford to lose, but just enough to keep him chasing ghosts.
“The Odessa group runs it. They handle transport, push shipments up the coast.” I let my breath drag for effect, my tone just weary enough to make it believable.
“Cocaine from Colombia, heroin from the Balkans. Weapons are funneled through New Jersey docks, cash laundered through real estate. You will find shell companies in Manhattan, safehouses in Brooklyn. You want politicians? Judges? They use a law firm, Kazinsky & Roth, to handle bribes and black accounts.”
Nick leans in closer, his gaze never leaving mine. The air is thick with tension as he waits, patient yet unmistakably hungry for more.
I can feel the weight of his stare, like a physical pressure on my chest. The drug still courses through my veins, clouding my thoughts, but not enough to stop me from realizing what he wants next.
‘‘Names, Aslanov,’’ Nick says, his voice colder now. ‘‘I need a name. Who’s in charge of Brighton Beach? Who’s pulling the strings?’’
I close my eyes, trying to gather my thoughts, but the fog in my brain thickens with each breath.
The pain in my skull is a constant drumbeat, pushing me further into the depths of this twisted game.
The truth is slipping from my lips like sand through fingers, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
‘‘Dimitri Vasiliev,’’ I rasp, the name barely audible through the haze.
“Vasiliev,” Nick repeats, the name settling in his mind. ‘‘Good. You’re not completely useless, Aslanov.’’
“I’ll start small,” he continues, speaking slowly, deliberately.
“I’ll take the pieces first. The money, the shipments, the men who think they’re untouchable.
I’ll pick them off one by one, make them answer to me.
And when I have enough in my pocket, when they start looking to me instead of the old guard—” he pauses, tilting his head, “then I’ll go for the heart. ”
I swallow hard, my body trembling as the drug keeps its grip on me. I can’t hide the flicker of unease in my eyes, and he sees it.
Nick smiles. “That’s the difference between you and me, Aslanov. You built an empire from the top down, made them fear you first. Me? I’m going to dig in from the ground up, make them need me. By the time I’m done, your Bratva won’t even realize they’ve already lost.”
His words slither through my mind like a slow, creeping poison.
I don’t respond. I can’t. I’ve said enough, and the rest of me is crumbling under the weight of the drug, the pain, the fear – fear for the underworld and the one above.
But I know one thing for certain. The game has just begun, and I’ve given him a key to open the door.