Chapter 24The Devil Behind the Files
The Devil Behind the Files
Isabella
The clinic feels hollow today, the usual hum of patient chatter replaced by the quiet whir of Ada’s laptop and the occasional rustle of paper as Sawyer flips through last night’s files.
The blinds are shut, blocking out the gray morning light, leaving the space washed in artificial fluorescence.
It smells like old croissants and stale coffee, a scent that clings to the back of my throat.
I sit on the edge of the desk, twirling a pen between my fingers, watching Ada’s face harden with frustration. Her laptop screen bathes her in an eerie blue glow, the reflection bouncing off her blue-light glasses as her fingers fly across the keyboard.
“There’s nothing,” she mutters, leaning back in her chair with an exasperated sigh. “No records, no aliases, nothing. This ‘Nick’ doesn’t exist.”
I tilt my head, frowning. “That can’t be right.”
“Yeah, but if I can’t find him in any databases, then either he’s a ghost, or someone scrubbed him clean from the internet.” She pushes her glasses up, rubbing at her eyes. “And scrubbing someone from the system like that? Like someone does not exist. It takes power.”
Sawyer, who has been quietly reading through last night’s notes, tosses a file onto the table and leans forward, elbows on his knees. “If he’s this well-hidden, that means he’s important.” His sharp eyes flick between Ada and me. “Either that, or he is truly that unimportant.”
I suck in a deep breath, ‘‘He is one of the last people we have seen close to Aslanov.’’
A moment of silence passes before Ada straightens.
She hesitates, then speaks. ‘‘Yes, but the accident files describe more names. And his isn’t part of that list. We have no idea what went down after his arrest. It is most likely he isn’t an opening we need, he finished his job.
Making sure Aslanov was back behind bars.
To get to the core we need to follow another lead, also because there is no lead when looking at Nick. ’’
“There’s someone who might help,” she says carefully, like she’s still deciding if it’s a bad idea.
I raise a brow. “Who?”
She exhales, looking at me now. “Viktor Karpov.”
The name lands between us like a dropped glass. Sawyer lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Karpov? That old bastard still alive?”
Ada smirks, but it’s humorless. “Barely. But he still has connections.”
Ada explains that Viktor Karpov was once a detective, one of the few who understood the delicate, bloodstained threads that wove through New York’s criminal underworld.
He worked the Bratva cases for years, got his hands dirty in ways most cops wouldn’t, and then retired before anyone could push him out.
He knows things, things that never made it into official reports.
I cross my arms. “You trust him?”
“No,” Ada says. “But he owes me.”
I glance at Sawyer, who just shrugs. “Better than chasing leads that are non-existed.”
Ada doesn’t waste time. She types out a message, her nails clicking against the keys. The minutes crawl by. Then—
A sharp ping.
Ada checks her screen and smirks. “He’s in.”
A sharp knock at the clinic’s back entrance makes all three of us go still.
Ada moves first, her chair scraping against the tiled floor as she stands. She doesn’t hesitate, just flips the lock and pulls the door open a crack, enough to see but not enough to let anyone through.
The man standing on the other side is bundled in a thick wool coat, its collar turned up against the cold.
He’s broad-shouldered, tall but slightly hunched like he’s spent too many years carrying things he shouldn’t.
His face is lined, deep grooves cutting across his forehead and around his mouth, and his skin is the ashen shade of someone who lives on bad coffee and worse cigarettes.
His sharp blue eyes sweep the clinic, quick and assessing, missing nothing.
There’s an exhaustion in his posture, but no hesitation. He’s used to being the one in control.
Ada doesn’t move aside immediately. “You took your time,” she says, her voice dry but not unwelcoming.
The man exhales sharply, stepping inside as if he was always going to, whether she let him or not. “You try digging through decades of dirt and see how fast you move.” His voice is gravelly, like rust scraping against metal.
I glance at Sawyer, who’s watching the exchange with an unreadable expression. I don’t recognize this man, but it’s clear Ada does.
She folds her arms, leaning against the doorframe. “Still breaking kneecaps for information, Karpov?”
The man—Karpov—gives a slow smirk, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not lately.”
Sawyer finally speaks, arms crossed from his spot near the exam table. “Nice to meet you, Karpov.”
The older man grunts in acknowledgment and shifts the weight in his hands; a battered cardboard box, the corners dented and worn soft with age. Without a word, he sets it down on the exam table with a dull thud. The weight of whatever’s inside makes the metal creak slightly.
Ada eyes the box, then him. “What’s this?”
“My retirement plan,” Karpov mutters dryly.
Then, more seriously, “It’s everything I have on the Bratva.
Names, reports, unofficial records.” His gaze flicks to me for the first time, studying me like he’s deciding how much I’m allowed to know.
“If you’re looking for ghosts, you might find one in here. ”
Sawyer exhales through his nose, skeptical. “You sure about this, old man? Handing over something like this?”
Karpov’s jaw tightens, his gaze hardening.
“Let’s just say I don’t like what’s happening in my city.
The Bratva’s being eaten alive from the inside, and nobody’s paying attention.
Something is shifting, the crime trends are too.
” He looks back at Ada, something unspoken passing between them.
“If you want answers, start with what’s in that box. ”
Karpov’s gaze shifts from Ada to me, his eyes lingering for a moment longer than necessary. There’s something calculating in the way he studies me, as if weighing my worth in this game of shadows. Then, with a slight nod, he steps toward me and extends his hand.
“I’m Viktor Karpov,” he says, his voice carrying an old-world weight, as if his name still holds some kind of power. “So, you’ve seen the man behind it all up close?”
The words hang in the air, and for a split second, my stomach lurches.
I don’t immediately respond; my thoughts are swirling mix of emotions.
How do I answer? How do I explain the pull Aslanov had on me—the strange, magnetic force of a man who ruled with such terrifying power that the mere mention of his name still carries weight?
I’d been a part of that world once, one I can never truly escape, no matter how far I try to distance myself from it.
Karpov, sensing the tension, offers Sawyer a dry smile and then turns his attention back to me. His eyes narrow, studying me with a quiet, almost assessing intensity.
“Does he live up to his nickname? The man of the underworld?” he says, his voice rougher now, almost teasing.
The question hangs in the air, and my stomach tightens.
I know exactly what Karpov means. The Devil, ‘Diable’ —that was Aslanov’s nickname, whispered in fearful reverence across the underworld.
He had earned it in blood, in violence, and in the cold, calculating way he handled anyone who dared to challenge his power.
Or that’s what he wanted everyone to believe.
Aslanov did live up to the name. He was a storm in a man’s body, unpredictable and terrifying. Yet, even now, my heart flutters at the thought of him, that strange mixture of admiration and something deeper; something I still don’t quite understand, fear and longing.
I finally exhale, my voice quiet but steady. “He did... but that’s not why you’re here.”
I push Karpov’s expression aside, and I step closer as Ada lifts the lid, revealing stacks of old reports, handwritten notes, newspaper clippings, redacted documents, and photographs bound by paperclips. Some are yellowed with age, others crisp and recent.
Ada sifts through them until her fingers still.
A photograph.
Ada turns the photograph over in her hands, her expression unreadable. The man in the picture is caught mid-step, his face slightly blurred, but the sharpness of his suit and the way he carries himself say enough. Not some street thug, someone with power. Someone who thought he was untouchable.
I glance at Karpov, waiting for an explanation. His expression is grim, his mouth pressing into a thin line.
“Roman Tsepov,” he says finally. “A businessman, at least on paper. In reality, he was a weapons broker for the Bratva. He wasn’t top-tier, not someone who called the shots, but he was an essential cog in their machine. An underboss who knew the right people and kept the wrong ones in check.”
The name itches at the back of my mind, familiar in a way that makes my stomach knot.
Then it hits me.
I exchange a glance with Ada, and she’s already thinking the same thing. I turn to Sawyer. “That name, Tsepov, he was in the files from the fire case.”
Sawyer straightens. “You’re right, he was.”
Karpov exhales sharply. “You’re connecting dots most people wouldn’t dare to.
” He pulls a chair closer and sits, his coat shifting as he leans forward, forearms on his knees.
“Tsepov made his fortune through weapons deals, but he was smart. He built a front and ran legitimate businesses to launder money. He still operates to this day. He is off age though, but a though one.”
I grip the edge of the table, my mind already moving ahead. “Do you know where we can find him?”
Karpov goes still, then slowly turns his head to look at me like I’ve lost my damn mind. His sharp blue eyes drill into mine, searching for any sign that I might be joking.
Ada exhales through her nose, shaking her head. “She’s serious, Karpov.” She smirks slightly. “She’s also insane. But we knew that.”
Karpov lets out a dry laugh, more of a scoff, and leans back in his chair. “You really don’t know when to stop, do you?”
I cross my arms. “Stopping isn’t an option.”
He exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
“You want Tsepov? Fine. But understand this, if you go knocking on his door, you better be damn sure you have a reason. A good one.” He leans forward, voice low.
“You’re stepping into dangerous territory, he could be an opening to the higher ranks in the Bratva. ”
My heart pounds faster, that’s exactly what we need. I need to reach Dominik.
Sawyer shifts beside me, arms crossed. “Isabella thrives in dangerous territories.”
Karpov studies us for another moment, then nods, as if resigning himself to the fact that we’re going to do this whether he warns us or not.
“Roman Tsepov still operates out of New York. To the legal world, he’s nothing more than a businessman, the CEO of Eastport International Holdings .
Offices in Midtown, 52nd Street. It’s a finance and logistics firm—clean on paper, but underneath?
” He shakes his head. “It’s a front. Money laundering, offshore accounts, shell corporations.
He will have connections, he will have some answers.
Whether you’ll obtain them is another story. ”
I file the information away, already picturing the building, the approach, the risks.
Karpov’s expression hardens. “If you walk in there, you’re not walking into some backroom poker game with street thugs.
You’re walking into an empire built on blood and power.
You don’t get a meeting with Tsepov unless he wants one.
And if you piss him off? You disappear. Just because he has ties with the Bratva doesn’t mean he is loyal.
There are lots of rats in the lower ranks of the organization.
He is your opening, not your guy. From what Ada told me about what is going on, he is in a too low of a rank; this here has to do with a real power shift- high rankings. ”
A beat of silence.
My focus locked on Karpov. “As the hunger games would state: may the odds be in our favor.”