Chapter 31Silent Treatment
Silent Treatment
Isabella
By the time I step through the door, exhaustion clings to me like a second skin.
The conversation with Tsepov still echoes in my mind, his words replaying over and over like a warning bell I can’t ignore. Climb the ranks. Don’t trust anyone. Not even me.
I barely have time to take a breath before I hear movement. Then—
“Oh, thank god.”
Ada is the first to reach me, her arms wrapping around my shoulders in a quick but firm hug. “I was about ten minutes away from grabbing a gun and coming after you,” she mutters before pulling back, giving me a once-over. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” I assure her, even though the tension in my shoulders says otherwise.
Sawyer, who has been watching from the couch, lets out a slow breath. “You took longer than expected.” His voice is steady, but the slight clench of his jaw gives him away.
“I had to make sure I left in one piece,” I say dryly, attempting a smirk. It doesn’t quite land.
Sawyer exhales, then gestures toward the coffee table. “Well, you’re back, so you might as well join us. Ice cream’s melting, and we’ve been drowning in paperwork waiting for you.”
The house smells like vanilla ice cream with a hint of chocolate.
Ada walks back to the couch, legs tucked beneath her, a spoon in one hand and a file in the other.
Sawyer is sprawled out across the other side, eating straight from the carton, the table between them covered in papers, reports, and photos.
As I step further in, the tension in the air shifts, concern fading into something more familiar.
Sawyer eyes me as I drop onto the armchair. “You look like shit.”
I huff out a laugh. “Good to see you too.”
Ada flips through a file without looking up. “She always looks like that after meeting men who could kill her in under thirty seconds.” Then, finally, she peeks up, arching a brow. “Tsepov?”
I nod, tossing a thin folder onto the table. “Tsepov.”
Sawyer sets his spoon down, his full attention on me now. “And?”
I exhale slowly. “And we have our next lead.” I nod toward the folder. “Monya Kuznetsov. Mid-level Bratva. Tsepov says he’s the bridge between the lower ranks and the ones up top.”
Ada reaches for the folder immediately, flipping it open. “So, we go after him?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “We go through him. He’s expecting me.”
Sawyer leans back, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. “So Tsepov just handed you a key to the next level?” His voice is skeptical, and rightfully so. “Why?”
“Because he wants power.” I shrug, watching their reactions carefully. “If I climb, I bring his name with me. He wants to control the system before it implodes. He thinks something is going on, too.”
Ada frowns. “Something like what?”
I exhale sharply. “He told me he’s an old friend of Aslanov. That he wants to know what’s going on just as much as we do. Says he’s being framed, that someone is setting him up.” I gesture toward the folder. “People are disappearing from the lower ranks—entire groups. Like the Odessa crew.”
Sawyer’s eyes narrow as he flips through the file. “The Odessa group is gone?”
“Multiple men,” I confirm. “No bodies, no warnings. Just… gone.” I shake my head. “I don’t know what we can trust, but Tsepov gave me this file and a name. It’s our only option right now.”
Ada sets the file down and leans back against the couch, chewing on her lip. “So, either Tsepov is playing us, or someone is trying to gut the Bratva from the inside.”
I shove another spoonful of vanilla ice cream into my mouth, the creamy sweetness barely registering as I flip through the file.
The pages are weighty in my hands, each one heavy with names, grainy surveillance photos, and reports that are practically nothing and everything all at once.
The words blur together, filling my mind with a buzzing static that I can’t shake.
The table is starting to look like a crime scene, except the only crime here is the sugar overdose I’m committing against my own body.
Sawyer left about an hour ago, he has got his daughter for the next two days.
Ada’s in the shower now, the sound of the running water filling the house, a constant hum that reminds me that, for a moment, at least, I’m alone with my thoughts.
Just me and this pile of chaos I’m supposed to be sorting through.
I stab my spoon into the second gallon of ice cream, feeling the cold like a shock through my hand.
It’s numb to me now, almost like the chill in my bones has taken over.
The Odessa group is gone. Just like that. No bodies, no signs of struggle, no warnings. Just... vanished. Nothing to explain why or how. A void where they should have been, just like Aslanov.
The paranoia starts to creep in, twisting up my spine. If they can disappear without a trace, without anyone knowing what happened, what’s to stop it from happening to me next?
Monya Kuznetsov.
The name’s bolded, underlined, the subject of the file. I scan down to the address listed beneath it: 487 Briarwood Lane, Maple Hill, Pennsylvania .
Maple Hill? I blink, trying to place it in my mind. It’s not New York, that’s for sure. Too far. But Pennsylvania, just a few hours outside of the city. Long enough for it to feel like a different world, far from the city’s constant buzz.
I glance at the map. Briarwood Lane. Small, residential. Probably a quiet area, tucked away in the middle of nowhere, where no one would think to look for anything suspicious. Or maybe that’s exactly why someone would; because no one would look.
My phone lights up.
I stare at the glowing screen of my phone as it buzzes on the table, its light flickering like a warning. The name on the screen is a stark contrast to everything else in my life right now— Mom .
My heart stutters before I can control it. I haven’t spoken to her in months, not since everything that has happened, not since that night. She’s always there in the back of my mind, like a shadow I can’t shake.
I had been evading her. Dodging her calls, ignoring her texts. The thought of talking to her about the darkness that’s swallowed me whole feels like I’m walking toward a door I’m afraid to open. Not because I don’t love her, because deep down I do. I just had wished to see everything differently.
I think I’m more disappointed than anything else, hurt.
Dr. Monroe’s voice echoes in my mind, a soft, steady tone as she told me, ‘‘Your trauma is not your fault, but your healing is your responsibility.’’
The phone vibrates again, pulling me from my thoughts.
MOM
I’m sorry for everything, Isabella.
My stomach tightens, but I don’t respond. The phone buzzes again, and my breath catches.
We need to talk.
My thumb hovers over the screen, my pulse quickening as another message pops up.
I have something important to tell you.
The air in the room feels thick, like I’m suffocating under the weight of confrontation. I don’t know if I can handle this, if I’m ready to face whatever the hell it is that’s been left unsaid between us.
What could she possibly have to tell me that’s important now?
I stare at the messages, her frantic attempt to reach me, and I can almost hear her voice, soft and desperate through the screen.
I can almost hear her, the guilt laced in her voice, the same tone she used when she’d tried to stitch the broken pieces of us together all those years ago.
But I can’t.
I throw the phone away, knocking it away like it’s a venomous snake, anything to stop the pressure building in my chest. But the phone doesn’t fall far, and the screen lights up again, taunting me with its silent insistence.
It’s crazy how trauma makes you push people away when all you want is love.
I pop another Prozac in my mouth and wash it down with old coffee from this morning. And all of a sudden, I feel really tired. Like the world has drained me for everything I never had.