Chapter 30The First Step of the Ladder
The First Step of the Ladder
Isabella
Great. Nothing says ‘welcome’ like two armed goons and an elevator ride to Hell.
I probably shouldn’t lead with that, but as I step into the mirrored elevator, flanked by the two men who could break my neck with one hand, I figure I should at least get the record straight for myself.
The ride is silent, except for the quiet hum of the elevator and the steady rhythm of my own pulse drumming in my ears.
My reflection stares back at me, composed, unshaken.
Or at least, that’s what I hope I look like.
The truth is, I feel like a deer walking into the lion’s den, except this lion has bodyguards, a private fortress, and an agenda I still can’t figure out.
I glance down at my outfit, intentional, like everything about tonight.
A deep emerald silk blouse, tailored perfectly to skim my frame without being too suggestive.
High-waisted black trousers, fitted but professional.
A matching blazer, sharp-shouldered and structured, the kind of thing that makes you stand taller even when your stomach is tied in knots.
My heels are just high enough to be commanding but not so high that I can’t run if I need to.
Not that running is an option.
The elevator dings. The doors slide open.
Showtime.
The moment the elevator doors glide open, the two men at my sides step forward in unison. No words, no glances exchanged—just pure, rehearsed efficiency. One moves ahead, the other stays behind me, their formation practiced and precise. A silent reminder that I am not in control here.
The hallway is nothing like I expected. No dark, brooding corridors, no obvious signs of criminal operations.
Instead, it’s sleek. Expensive. A stretch of polished marble floors reflecting the glow of low-hanging lights, glass-paneled walls that give the illusion of openness while ensuring no one can see inside.
The air is cool, scented faintly with something rich and smoky, cigars, maybe, or something more exotic.
At the far end, double doors.
One of the men reaches for the handle and pushes them open without hesitation.
I step inside.
The office is sprawling; wide windows offering a panoramic view of the city, the lights of New York glittering like scattered diamonds against the night.
A modern fireplace flickers low against one wall, casting warm shadows across dark wood and leather.
A fully stocked bar gleams in the corner, crystal decanters filled with amber liquid.
Everything here is a contradiction, luxury built on violence, power dressed up as sophistication.
He decided to hold this conversation in a classy space, not what I expected.
And at the center of it all, Roman Tsepov.
He’s seated behind a massive desk, dark mahogany, nearly bare except for an ashtray, a glass of something dark, and a single, neatly stacked pile of documents. He leans back slightly, cigarette in hand, exhaling a slow stream of smoke as he watches me enter.
His eyes, sharp, assessing, like he’s already dissected me in the seconds it took me to step inside. He doesn’t speak right away. Instead, he lets the silence stretch, lets the weight of his gaze settle over me like a predator deciding if its prey is worth the chase.
Then, with a flick of his wrist, he dismisses the men behind me.
They don’t question it. The door clicks shut, leaving only the two of us.
The lion and the deer.
But I am not here to be prey.
I lift my chin, meeting his gaze head-on.
Tsepov watches me for a moment, the smoke curling from his cigarette in lazy spirals. He takes his time, like he has all the power in the world, which, in this room, he does. The silence isn’t just silence. It’s deliberate. A test. A game.
Fine. I can play.
Without waiting for an invitation, I stride toward the chair opposite his desk and sit down, crossing one leg over the other.
The leather is soft, expensive, the kind that molds to you in a way that makes you feel trapped rather than comfortable.
I rest my hands on the armrests, keeping my posture relaxed, but my back straight. I won’t fidget. I won’t shrink.
His lips curve slightly at the boldness of my move, but he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he flicks the ash from his cigarette into the tray, then leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk. His fingers tap against the wood, slow and rhythmic.
“So,” he says at last, his voice low, smooth. “The infamous nurse with the red hair.”
I arch a brow. “You know, most people introduce themselves first before making observations.”
His smirk deepens, but there’s no warmth in it. “Most people don’t interest me.”
I tilt my head slightly, keeping my expression carefully neutral. “So,” I say, my voice steady, “are we going to keep dancing around this, or are you going to tell me why I’m here?”
Tsepov hums, as if considering whether or not I deserve an answer. He reaches for his glass, swirling the dark liquid before taking a slow sip. Then he sets it down with deliberate ease, his fingers lingering against the rim.
“You’re more trustworthy,” he says suddenly.
The statement catches me off guard, but I don’t let it show. I lean back slightly in my chair. “That’s an interesting assumption,” I say. “We’ve known each other for approximately three minutes.”
His eyes glint with something sharp. “And yet, I know more about you than you think.”
I resist the urge to shift in my seat. “Oh?”
He leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk, close enough that I can see the faint scar running along his knuckles. “You were Karamazov’s girl.”
My breath catches.
It’s only for a fraction of a second, just a single misstep, a heartbeat too quick, a flicker of something in my eyes, but Tsepov notices. Of course, he does.
I lean forward slightly trying to get it right again, my eyes narrowing, matching the sharpness of his gaze. ‘‘You know, Tsepov,’’ I say, my voice calm but laced with something colder, ‘‘you’re not exactly the picture of trustworthiness yourself.’’
His brow raises, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. “Oh? Enlighten me.”
I don’t flinch, don’t hesitate. “Your name is in the fire case file, relating back to Aslanov. Don’t think I didn’t notice.’’
His expression hardens almost imperceptibly, but the mask doesn’t slip. Not yet. He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he takes another deliberate sip from his glass, the ice clinking faintly as he sets it down. The silence between us grows thick, as if the room itself is waiting for his answer.
Tsepov’s lips curve slightly, but there’s no warmth in it.
‘‘You’re sharp,” he says, his voice low, like he’s trying to decide if that’s a compliment or a warning.
‘‘And you’re right. My name is in that file. But I wasn’t there.
None of the men mentioned were. Someone is trying to frame me, and I’m not exactly thrilled about it. ”
The words drop into the space between us like a heavy weight. I take a moment to digest the implication of what he’s saying. He isn’t here to threaten me or play games—he’s telling me there’s something bigger at play, something darker that he’s not in control of.
He leans back in his chair, the leather creaking softly under his weight, and his eyes flicker toward the window, as if he’s already bored with the subject but can’t help himself from revealing more.
“I’ve been old friends with Aslanov for years.
That’s the kind of friendship that doesn’t just disappear.
I’m not here to play politics or games with your investigation.
I’m here because I think something’s wrong, and I think you’re on to something. ”
I narrow my gaze, trying to process what he’s hinting at. “What do you mean?”
His eyes flicker toward the window for a moment before he turns back to me, voice lowering to a level that feels almost conspiratorial.
“A shift is happening in the bottom, and we up here can feel it. People below me are disappearing into thin air. Shipments going wrong. Things are starting to unravel, Isabella. The Odessa group has been targeted. We’re concerned. ”
I feel my stomach tighten, the weight of his words sinking in. There’s more than just a missing person or a power struggle going on. This is something deeper, something far more dangerous.
“I’ve been watching,” he continues, leaning forward again, his voice now low but steady. “I think you’re right; a pakhan doesn’t disappear, especially not like that.”
He is giving me the information I want, just like that.
I take a slow breath, trying to keep my composure. “And where do I come in?”
Tsepov’s gaze hardens. “You want to find him, don’t you? Whether you’re finding a body or a breathing man, I don’t know for sure, but something is wrong. You need to climb the ranks, get closer to the core; the Vor v Zakone . And I can help you do that. Don’t trust anyone. Not even me.”
Of course, he knows my plan.
His words land with finality. I know he’s right. I can’t afford to trust anyone completely. Not even him. But I can’t ignore the reality either, if I want to find Aslanov, I need all the help I can get, even if that help comes with strings attached.
“And what’s in it for you?” I ask, the suspicion still lingering in my voice.
Tsepov shrugs slightly, a cold smile playing on his lips. “I’ve spent years watching this system. Now it’s my turn to control it. To make sure it doesn’t implode from the inside. If this power shift isn’t stopped, I’ll lose grip on the power I’ve carefully gained. I need it to be fixed.’’
He wants power.
“I’ll open the door for you, you just have to climb,” he continues, his gaze unwavering. “And you’re going to imply a good word for me once you get up there.”
I nod slowly, the uncertainty swirling inside me. I don’t fully trust him, but right now, I have no other choice.