Chapter 29Tear Me Asunder
Tear Me Asunder
Aslanov
The room is the same. The cold, unyielding metal of the chair beneath me. The dull hum of the overhead light flickering in rhythmic intervals. The faint scent of blood, mine, mostly, mingling with the lingering trace of my darkened mind.
And Nick.
He stands in front of me, sleeves rolled up, the faint imprint of bruised knuckles still fresh on his skin. His posture is relaxed, too casual, like a man who has already won the fight before throwing the first punch.
I am going to kill him.
The silence between us stretches, taut with expectation. I keep my breathing slow, controlled. Every muscle in my body protests against the lingering effects of the last session, cracked ribs, torn skin, the faint remnants of the drug still dulling the edges of my mind.
My chest stings. The tattoo, bold, black lines once crisp and unyielding.
has begun to flake. The skin beneath it is raw, irritated, as if struggling to heal but never quite allowed the chance.
Scabs form along the edges where the ink has cracked, tiny flecks peeling away like the shedding of old skin.
Nick sighs and steps closer, his boots echoing against the concrete floor. He doesn’t speak right away. He lets the weight of his presence settle first, lets the tension curl between us like a predator toying with its prey.
Then, finally—
“You should’ve given me more.”
His voice is calm. Almost disappointed.
I smirk, slow and deliberate. “Sounds like you got plenty.”
Nick’s jaw tenses, but he doesn’t react beyond that. Instead, he pulls something from his pocket. A small, worn notebook. He flips it open, thumb skimming the pages before he reads aloud:
“Dimitri Vasiliev. Enforcer for the Odessa group. Picked him up outside a club in Brighton Beach two nights ago. Sang like a fucking canary.” His gaze lifts to mine.
“Vladimir Kovach. Mid-level operator, moving product through New Jersey. Gave me a list of names.” He takes a step closer, his voice lowering.
“Then there’s Yegor Sokolov. Accountant.
Been handling Bratva money for years. Guess where he is now? ”
I say nothing.
Nick smiles. “Somewhere safe. Somewhere warm. And very, very cooperative.”
My fingers flex against the restraints. He’s lying. Or bluffing. Or maybe, maybe he’s not.
Nick crouches in front of me, elbows resting on his knees. His dark eyes search my face, waiting for a crack, a flicker of doubt.
“I told you, Aslanov.” His voice is softer now, but no less dangerous. “I don’t come for the top first. I don’t aim for the head. I start at the feet, break the foundation, watch the whole thing crumble from the inside out.”
I exhale slowly. “And you think you’ve done that?”
Nick tilts his head. “I know I have.”
He straightens again, stepping back just enough to pull something else from his pocket.
A phone.
I don’t recognize it, but the moment he unlocks the screen and turns it toward me, my blood runs cold.
A photo.
A man, bound to a chair much like this one. Blood streaking his face, his head hanging at an unnatural angle. His body slack, lifeless.
Vasiliev.
Nick watches me, gauging my reaction. “See, here’s the thing about men like him.
They think they can be loyal to ghosts. To an empire that no longer protects them.
” He pockets the phone again, expression unreadable.
“But fear is a powerful motivator. And when fear isn’t enough—” he shrugs, “—I make examples.”
A slow, insidious rage coils in my chest.
Nick leans in again, his voice a murmur now. “How long, do you think? Before the rest of them realize no one’s coming for them? Before they stop fearing you and start fearing me?”
My fingers clench into fists, the metal cuffs biting into my skin.
Nick straightens, satisfied with my silence. “Brighton Beach is slipping through your fingers, Aslanov. Give me something worth my time, or I’ll burn through every last one of your men until there’s nothing left. I want a new target.”
I hiss through gritted teeth, the words slipping out in a guttural snarl.
‘‘Ty ubludok.’’ You bastard. My voice is low, raw, born from a place of pure, seething hate.
The cuffs rattle as I tighten my grip into fists, the metal digging into my skin, and I glare at Nick with every ounce of defiance I have left.
Nick pauses, his eyes narrowing, but the corner of his mouth lifts in a faint smile, a predator smelling blood. He leans in closer, his breath hot against my ear.
“You think that kind of language is going to save her?” His voice is thick with mocking satisfaction, but there’s something else in it, something colder. ‘‘I could make her scream your name while she’ll beg for mercy. I could make her—’’
“Don’t.” The word escapes before I can stop it, and my heart thunders in my chest. But as I meet his gaze there is something there.
I notice it.
It’s fleeting, but it’s there. A hesitation. A sliver of doubt.
I seize it, a different emotion. He notices that I do.
He calls over one of the guards, his voice sharp and commanding. “Bring him,” he orders. The guard doesn’t hesitate, stepping forward and moving to the side where a trolley sits, loaded with tools I haven’t seen before.
I know what’s coming. I’ve been here before, countless times, each round of pain a variation of the same torture—blows, burns, broken bones.
“Let’s try something new,” Nick murmurs.
The guard approaches with a cold, clinical look in his eyes. He places the trolley beside me, each tool neatly arranged, but it’s the salt that catches my attention. The jagged white crystals gleam under the harsh light, each one promising a fresh layer of agony.
Nick watches closely, his eyes cold but full of anticipation.
“You’re not going to last much longer without answering, Aslanov,” he murmurs.
“I want another opening into the Bratva. Fast. And if you don’t, I’ll make sure the salt burns so deep you’ll never forget it.
You’ll beg for anything to stop it. Besides I enjoy torturing you too much. ”
I grit my teeth, every inch of me trembling as the guard begins to work.
He presses the salt directly into the fresh wound along my side, where they’d reopened it earlier.
The sting is immediate and relentless, the salt cutting deeper into the exposed flesh.
My muscles spasm involuntarily as the pain slices through my body. But I don’t cry out.
Nick steps closer, his voice a cold whisper. “Tell me. The Bratva’s operations in New York. Where else do they operate?”
The salt burns deeper, each second an eternity of agony. My mind hurls against the pain, but I focus. He wants information? He’ll get it. My body betrays me, shuddering, but I force the words out.
“There’s another place... you want to know?” I gasp, forcing my voice past the gnawing pain.
He leans in, his voice dropping, cold as ice. “Where do the lower-ranked Bratva members gather? Where do they come together to exchange information, make deals, auction off power?”
He wants something more than just money and shipments, fuck.
I swallow hard, forcing my voice past the pain.
“There’s a place... in Queens. A warehouse.
It’s not just a front for weapons or drugs.
It’s an auction house. Where the lower ranks come together to sell influence, contracts, and even people.
They bid on favors, power shifts, everything is up for grabs. ”
Nick watches me closely, his expression unreadable. I can see the gears turning in his mind. This is what he’s after. This is the access he wants.
“And who runs it?” he demands, his voice low, almost bored.
I hesitate, the pain intensifying with every breath. But there’s no way out now. I know I have to give him what he wants.
“Kamchy Kolbayev,” I rasp, the name slipping out like poison from my lips. “He’s the one who controls it.”
Nick’s eyes narrow, and I see that familiar glimmer of victory flash across his face. He nods once, as if he’s already made his decision.
“Queens, huh? Looks like we have more work to do.”
My body trembles uncontrollably, each breath shallow, desperate for any kind of air, any sound to tether me to something real. But the silence, utter and suffocating, drowns everything.
My wrists feel on fire, and the cold, damp air seems to cling to my skin, tightening with every passing second. The isolation presses in like a weight, suffocating, until it’s all I can feel.
I try to focus, to push the panic down, but it claws at me, scratching at the edges of my sanity. My chest tightens, and I can feel my heart rate spiking. The quiet grows unbearable, a buzzing in my ears that has nothing to do with sound but everything to do with my own racing mind.
And then, it happens.
A figure steps out from the darkness, almost imperceptible at first. But then, the scent—the familiar warmth of her perfume—wafts through the air, and my heart skips a beat. I blink, trying to clear the fog from my mind, but there she is, standing in front of me. My mother.
“Mama?” I rasp, the word heavy on my tongue, thick with longing.
She smiles softly, her eyes sparkling with that motherly affection I haven’t felt in years.
Her hands reach out to me, warm and comforting, as she cups my face. ‘‘Aslanov,’’ she whispers, her voice a balm to the raw, frantic nerves that have taken over. ‘‘You’ve always been so strong, my son.’’
Her touch is so real, so warm, that I lean into it instinctively, closing my eyes, wanting to bury myself in that fleeting safety. The smell of her perfume, the lavender that always lingered on her clothes, wraps around me, calming the storm in my chest.
‘‘Everything will be okay,’’ she murmurs, her voice like the lullaby she used to sing to me when I was a child. ‘‘You don’t have to carry this burden alone, my dear.’’
I swallow, struggling to push away the fog, the creeping doubt that tells me this isn’t real. But she’s here, holding me like she used to when I was small, when the world didn’t hurt so much.
“Mama,” I whisper again, the tears burning in my eyes, a mix of pain and tenderness that has no place in this dark hell. “I’m sorry.”
She shakes her head, brushing a lock of hair from my face. “Don’t apologize. You’ve never had a choice.’’
I want to reach out and hold her, to beg her to stay, to keep me grounded in this fleeting moment. But as quickly as she came, the warmth begins to fade, the comforting scent of her perfume dissolving into the cold air, leaving me with the harsh reality of the cell once more.
I’m alive, but invisible. If no one knows you are alive, you aren’t.
I’m going fucking insane.