Chapter 23In Her Name I Bleed
In Her Name I Bleed
Isabella
I’m sitting at the kitchen table in a sagging pair of joggers, my hair a chaotic mess that looks more like a bird’s nest than anything human. It’s the kind of hair you only see in horror movies, but somehow I haven’t had the energy to do a thing about it.
I walk over to the bathroom, admiring my ugliness in the mirror.
With a sigh, I pull down my underwear and sit on the toilet, staring at the faint streak of dark blood on the panty liner I just peeled away.
Spotting again. I hate spotting. It’s the worst kind of in-between; too dry for a tampon, too wet for nothing.
Just enough to ruin my underwear, but not enough to be considered an actual period.
I reach for a fresh liner, pressing it into my underwear before pulling them back up.
I can’t even remember the last time I had a normal, functioning cycle.
It’s always been irregular, delayed, light, unpredictable or non-existed at all.
At this point, I don’t even expect my body to work the way it’s supposed to.
I flush and make my way back to the kitchen table.
The sound of the front door opening pulls me from my thoughts. It’s Sawyer, his boots scraping the floor as he steps in with the familiar scent of takeout. He doesn’t speak right away, but I can feel his presence, the weight of his gaze on the back of my neck.
“I brought food,” he says, his voice casual, but there’s something in the way he says it that makes it clear he’s trying to break the tension. He sets the bags down on the counter and looks over at me, watching for any sign that I’m falling apart.
‘‘Ada’s not here yet, huh?’’ he says, his voice softer now, a little knowing.
“No,” I reply, my voice hoarse. “Not yet.”
I take a slow breath, trying to force the cold air to clear my mind. I should be grateful for the distraction, but I can’t stop thinking about what we’re doing, where this is heading. It’s not enough. It will never be enough.
I hear the faint hum of a car approaching, the tires crunching over the snow outside. A moment later, the door creaks open again, and Ada steps inside. Her movements are brisk, determined, and the way she sets the box on the table tells me she’s already carrying the weight of whatever’s inside.
‘‘Files,’’ she says shortly, her voice strained but resolute. “From an old colleague. Not legal, but it’s something.”
Sawyer raises an eyebrow at her, glancing at the box with suspicion. “And what’s in it?”
Ada pulls open the flaps, revealing the stack of papers inside, all held together with an old rubber band.
The edges are worn, the pages faded in places.
She pulls a few out and starts to flip through them, her fingers dancing over the pages as she scans them.
It immediately gives me flashbacks from when I dug into him, his business.
“History of mafia families,” Ada says, not looking up. “The Bratva, their structure, some key players. Not a lot, but enough. There’s more in here about Aslanov’s so-called death case. But it’s not what we were expecting.”
I step closer, my pulse quickening as I read over her shoulder.
The names, the dates, the connections between men I don’t recognize but feel like I should.
The details are sparse, but one name stands out—Karamazov.
The head of the Bratva. But beneath the scribbled notes, something is missing. Gaps. Holes.
Ada pulls out a folder with a heavy sigh, her eyes narrowing.
“The case on Aslanov’s death is a mess. It doesn’t add up.
Officially, he was declared dead not even three months ago after a supposed ‘fire and shooting accident in an underground prison facility,’ but there’s no autopsy report, no clear cause of death.
There’s just... silence. And then there are reports of men in his circle acting like he’s still alive. ”
I reach for the file, flipping through it.
The case is outlined in vague terms, like someone tried to erase every trace of it without quite getting rid of all the pieces.
There are scattered details; conflicting eyewitness statements, unexplained disappearances, a phone call from a man identified only as “Lorenzo”—and then nothing.
Just a dead end. Then a couple more random names: Vladimir Kumarin, Semyon Ivankov, Roman Tsepov, Maxim Lazovsky, and Thomas Altamura . All names I have never heard of before.
“Everything here is either redacted or missing,” Ada continues, her voice rising in frustration. “This isn’t a normal death investigation. There’s something off about it. Someone’s hiding something.”
Sawyer leans over her shoulder, looking at the files with an unreadable expression. “What are we missing?”
I glance down at the documents again, feeling my frustration begin to bubble over.
“We’re missing the connection. There’s something more to this.
Whoever is behind it, whoever made this happen; they wanted to erase Aslanov.
And now, they’re covering their tracks. But why? And more importantly, where is he?”
Sawyer crosses his arms, leaning against the table. “Alright. So, what do we do with this?”
Ada takes a sip of her Pepsi while pushing the folder aside and pulling out a few more papers from the box. “We keep digging. We find out who’s still in the Bratva. We find out who’s been taking orders in his name. And I think we know exactly who that is.” He gaze shifts to me.
The silence stretches in the room, thick and heavy. My mouth feels dry, and my heartbeat picks up as soon as the name slips out.
“Dominik.”
Aslanov
The metal door to my cell creaks open. I don’t bother to look up. There’s nothing left to see in their faces, nothing but the cold, indifferent masks of men who believe their power over me is absolute.
‘‘Time to go, princess,’’ the voice is low, gravelly, almost bored. But there’s something different in it today. A shift. They’re not here to just drag me to another cold shower or to shove me into a filthy corner.
I can feel it in the way they grab me, rougher than usual, more deliberate.
One of them yanks me upright by the shackles around my wrists, the metal biting into my skin as they pull me out of the cell and into the hallway.
My legs scream in protest, my stiff muscles nearly giving out under the strain.
But I stay upright, my feet dragging across the damp floor as they haul me forward.
I don’t look at the cells as we pass them, not anymore.
It’s too much of a reminder of the ghosts that haunt this place.
But this time, as we move down the narrow corridor, I can’t ignore the subtle shift in the air.
The walls are colder here, more solid, more unforgiving.
We take a turn I’ve never seen before. The hallway widens, the floor becomes more uneven, and the faint sound of voices echoes from the other side of a heavy wooden door. There are more people here.
I see it then; the door’s carved with strange symbols, none of which I recognize. But the feeling is enough.
They stop in front of the door, and I hear the scraping of a key in the lock.
The door creaks open, revealing a small room.
The walls are covered in dark stains, the floor covered in some kind of rubbery matting, and the air smells sharp, sterile, almost, but there’s a tinge of something more sinister beneath it.
Two more guards stand inside. Both of them are bigger than the ones who usually drag me around, their eyes cold and disinterested, just like their comrades.
One of them is standing next to a table, looking down at a strange contraption that makes my skin crawl just looking at it.
Both dressed in all black, masks covering their lower faces.
It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen, but there’s something unmistakably menacing about it.
It’s a machine—rough and mechanical, with a long needle attached to a tube, and a series of buttons and dials on its side.
The whole thing looks like something cobbled together in a back alley, an amateur’s attempt at making a torture device.
I swallow hard. I know what this is for.
They push me toward a chair in the center of the room, a cold metal contraption with restraints on the arms and legs. The leather straps are cracked, worn, and stained with something dark. Blood? Sweat? Both, most likely.
I hesitate, but only for a moment. I know better than to show weakness.
So, I force my legs to move, my body protesting every step.
They shove me into the chair, and before I can even brace myself, they’ve strapped me in, tight, suffocating.
My wrists are secured to the arms, my ankles bound to the chair’s legs, and there’s no room to move.
One of the guards steps forward, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves with a sickening snap. His eyes glint with the kind of malice I’ve come to expect, but this time, there’s something else in his expression. A kind of sick enjoyment. He picks up the machine.
‘‘This will hurt,’’ he says, his voice so low it’s almost a whisper.
He flicks the switch on the machine. It hums to life, the needle at the end vibrating in a way that makes my skin crawl.
I try to hold my breath, but it escapes in a ragged sigh.
The guard moves closer, the other one keeping a hand on my chest, forcing me to stay still, not that I’d be able to move anyway.
I don’t want to look. I can feel the cool metal of the machine approaching my chest, just above my heart. The cross. The mark of the Pakhan . My symbol of power, the one that marks me as heir to the Bratva. It’s been with me for years, inked into my skin like a promise. A burden.
But they want to erase it. They want to make me forget who I am, what I was.