Chapter 34A Poison That Seeps Slowly
A Poison That Seeps Slowly
Aslanov
Nick hasn’t been back in days.
That should make me relieved. Instead, it puts me on edge.
Days blur into one another, swallowed whole by the damp, windowless cell. Sleep comes in fractured moments, if at all, drifting somewhere between fevered dreams and the cruel bite of reality. I am slowly but completely losing it.
The heavy clang of metal snaps me from my haze. Footsteps—measured, unhurried—draw closer. A familiar rhythm. It takes longer than usual, but eventually, the steel door unlocks.
Fucking old bastard.
He steps inside, his presence a shadow that darkens the already suffocating space. His sleeves are rolled up again, but this time, his knuckles are unscathed. He hasn’t needed to use his fists, my mind tries to pin the pieces together. He isn’t doing the dirty work himself, he has men below him.
“Miss me?” His voice is light, almost amused.
“You’ve been quiet, Aslanov.” His eyes flick over my face, searching for something, weakness, defiance, maybe both. “But don’t worry. I’ve been busy in your absence.”
I tilt my head slightly, waiting.
Nick smirks. “You remember that warehouse in Queens you told me about?” He leans in but always keeping a distance, voice dropping to a murmur. “It’s mine now.”
The words are a slow knife to the gut.
“You gave me Kolbayev,” he continues, watching me closely, “ took him apart piece by piece—metaphorically, of course.” He gestures vaguely. “Some of his men were smart enough to cut a deal. Others? Not so much.”
Anger, hurt, and betrayal fill my fibers and bones. How easy some people become rats.
Anyone can betray anyone.
‘‘The deals made in back rooms? They answer to me now.” His smile sharpens. “Which means your empire is crumbling even faster than you thought.”
I force my expression into careful neutrality, but he sees it; the flicker of something in my eyes.
Satisfaction curls at the edge of his lips. “Now,” he says, straightening, “I need more.”
Of course he does.
I am going to lose everything, as long as it’s not her – I don’t even care anymore.
Nick reaches into his coat pocket, retrieving a cigarette with the kind of ease that comes from habit. He taps it against his knuckle once before slipping it between his lips. Then, slowly, deliberately, he pulls out a lighter, a sleek, silver thing that catches the faint glow of the city beyond.
Click.
The flame flickers to life, casting sharp shadows across his face.
I exhale slowly, the movement making my ribs scream in protest. “You already have two foundations,” I rasp. “What else could you possibly want?”
Nick watches me, his dark eyes unreadable. “The heart, and you know it.”
“But I don’t want the heart just yet ,” he murmurs, tapping ash from his cigarette.
“Not before I tear through everything holding it up.” His dark eyes lock onto mine.
“I need a place, Aslanov. A gathering point. A warehouse, a club, somewhere the mid-level players meet. The ones who keep the wheels turning. The ones who whisper the orders before they reach the streets.”
I stay silent.
Nick clicks his tongue. “You want me to start guessing? Fine. Maybe it’s a bar in Brooklyn, tucked behind some sad little front business.
Or maybe it’s a strip club in Queens where the right men sit in the back room while everyone else drowns in cheap liquor.
” His gaze sharpens. “Or maybe, just maybe, it’s a warehouse.
One that isn’t just used for shipments, but for business.
The kind of place where favors are traded like currency. ”
I feel the muscles in my jaw tighten, and Nick sees it. His mouth curves into something resembling amusement.
“Ah,” he says softly. “That one.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, forcing myself not to react further.
Nick flicks his cigarette to the ground, crushing the ember under his boot. “Tell me where.”
The words come out hoarse, torn from my throat like glass dragging through flesh.
“Dockside. Off Gowanus. The old cannery warehouse.” I exhale slowly, my ribs screaming with every movement.
“You’ll find them there. Mid-rankers. Deal-brokers.
Men who move the pieces before the real players ever take the board.
” I pause, watching his expression. “You’re getting close. ”
Nick tilts his head, considering. “Closer than you’d like.”
“Who’s their bridge?”
I swallow, jaw tightening against the ache, then finally let the name slip past my lips, ‘‘Monya Kuznetsov.’’
Nick immediately snaps his fingers to another masked man in the corner, ‘‘Get going.’’
Fuck.
He already has the foundation. Now he has the second step, access to the men who make the Bratva function from the shadows. The step before the final one. The Vor v Zakone. The heart.
I see it in his eyes. He’s nearly there, and whoever supports him.
Nick lets a beat of silence pass before he nods, a decision made. “Guards.”
Heavy boots scuff against concrete. Rough hands grab my arms.
“For once,” Nick muses, “I’ll be generous.”
A strip of cloth is pulled over my eyes, cutting out the dim glow of the overhead lights.
My body tenses, expecting the sharp bite of a blade, the electric snap of a cattle prod.
Instead, there’s movement. They’re dragging me forward, but it’s different this time.
The air shifts. No longer thick with blood and damp, rotting walls.
Something else fills my lungs—cooler, crisper.
Fresh air.
I hold my breath.
I keep my breathing even, slow. With my eyes blindfolded, all I have left is sound, and I listen.
The wind whispers against my skin, cold and sharp, slicing through the thin fabric of my third torn shirt. They had been kind this time: after showering I got clothes.
The wind howls through unseen spaces, long, mournful, stretching into the unknown. Not the kind of wind that moves through a city’s heartbeat, weaving between traffic and voices. This wind is empty.
No honking cars. No distant murmur of conversation. No life.
Only the eerie rustle of trees—tall ones, the kind whose branches groan as they sway. Leaves, dry and brittle, skitter across a surface that isn’t pavement. Dirt, maybe. Gravel. Something loose beneath my feet.
A creaking sound drifts in next. A sign, perhaps, or an old structure shifting in the wind. Metal, rusted and weary, complaining against the push of the air.
Somewhere in the distance, something flutters, a cloth? A tarp? It snaps against itself, the sound sharp before it settles again.
But there’s nothing else. No voices. No distant hum of engines. No city life pulsing in the background.
Wherever I am, it’s isolated. Removed .
“Feels nice, doesn’t it?” His voice is smooth, almost conversational. “A breath of something different, something close to being alive.”
My fingers twitch against my restraints. The fresh air, the openness, it is a reward, in its own cruel way. A taste of something I can’t have. A reminder of life, something I’m not in the possession of.
I drink in as much of it as I can, filling my lungs with the sharp bite of the wind, the scent of damp earth and rustling leaves. It’s not just air. It’s life. Something I can feel but not touch.
And then, like everything else, he takes it away.
“Take him back.”
The guards tighten their grip, dragging me away from the fleeting taste of freedom. The wind fades. The air thickens once more.
And the darkness remains.
I let the dark take me. Let it sink into my bones. Let it fill me.