Chapter 36Rats in the Walls, Rats in the Shadows
Rats in the Walls, Rats in the Shadows
Isabella
The air inside the house is thick, stale cigarette smoke clinging to the walls, mingling with the unmistakable metallic tang of something darker. Something rotten.
I step through the doorway, my shoes barely making a sound against the warped wooden floor.
The dim light casts jagged shadows, stretching across the peeling wallpaper like skeletal fingers.
It smells like sweat and desperation, the kind of place where bad things happen and worse things are planned.
He doesn’t live a luxurious life, that’s for sure.
A low murmur of voices drifts from the next room. Male. Russian. The Bratva has a way of speaking that’s unmistakable, low, measured, like every word is a warning.
I learnt that the day I met Aslanov.
I keep my breathing steady, letting my eyes adjust. The house is falling apart, but someone still calls it home.
A half-eaten plate of food sits on the dusty coffee table, the TV flickering with static in the corner.
Empty beer bottles litter the floor, some shattered, as if tempers have already flared tonight.
Then I see him.
Monya Kuznetsov.
He’s slouched in a chair at the far end of the room, a pistol resting loosely in his grip, his free hand swirling a glass of something dark.
He looks exactly how I expected; grimy tracksuit, a thick gold chain around his neck, scars that tell stories no one’s alive to repeat.
His hair is buzzed short, his face hard, eyes half-lidded but still sharp enough to cut.
Three other men are in the room, leaning against the walls, their hands never straying too far from their weapons.
One of them is built like a tank, tattoos creeping up his neck.
Another is thinner, jittery, his fingers tapping against the grip of his gun.
The third sits at the table, counting stacks of cash with slow, deliberate movements.
Fuck me.
I make it three steps inside before Monya notices me.
His gaze flicks up, and for a second, the room stills. Then—
‘‘Ty dolzhna byt ta devushka.’’ You must be the girl.
His lips curl into a lazy, knowing smirk, and he leans back in his chair, appraising me like I’m something he might break just to see how I shatter.
I let the door click shut behind me.
Showtime.
I hold his gaze, my expression unreadable. My pulse is steady, my stance relaxed, but I make sure he sees the sharpness beneath it, the edge that says I’m not here to play games.
“English, please, Mr. Kuznetsov,” I say steady, stepping further into the room. My voice is even, controlled, but I don’t miss the way the tension in the air shifts.
One of the men near the wall lets out a low chuckle, but Monya doesn’t take his eyes off me. He exhales slowly, setting his glass down on the armrest, the ice clinking against the sides.
“You come into my house,” he says, his Russian accent thick but his words precise, “and you make demands?”
I tilt my head slightly, offering the smallest of smiles. “I like to keep things clear. No misunderstandings.”
His smirk widens, but there’s nothing friendly about it. “Misunderstandings,” he repeats, like he’s testing the word on his tongue. He gestures lazily to the empty chair across from him. “Then by all means, sit. Let’s be… clear.”
I don’t move right away. Instead, I let my eyes sweep the room again, mapping every exit, every weapon, every shift in body language. I can feel the weight of the tiny earpiece tucked beneath my hair, the silent presence of Sawyer and Ada on the other end.
I walk forward, slow and deliberate, lowering myself into the chair across from Monya. I’m in a den of vipers.
He studies me for another long second before he lifts a hand. The men exchange glances but obey, stepping out into the hall. The heavy door clicks shut behind them, leaving just the two of us. The air changes, quieter, but heavier.
‘‘I hear you’re on a mission.’’ Monya folds his hands together, elbows resting on his knees. ‘‘Tell me, Isabella, what exactly is it you think you’re doing here?’’
I move forward slowly, folding my hands together, mirroring his composure. ‘‘I think you already know.’’
Monya exhales, shaking his head slightly. ‘‘You think you’re playing a game of chess, but you don’t even know who’s watching the board.’’
His words strike something deep, but I don’t let it show. Instead, I shift slightly, meeting his gaze head-on. ‘‘That’s funny,’’ I say coolly. ‘‘Tsepov said the same thing.’’
Monya’s smirk flickers. Just slightly. It’s almost imperceptible, but I don’t miss it.
“Ah, Tsepov.” He leans back, lacing his fingers together. “So, you’ve been speaking with my old friend.”
“I have,” I confirm. “He said you’d be expecting me.”
Monya watches me for a moment, then nods. “Yes. He did inform me. But he left out one detail.” His voice drops slightly, gaze sharp. “What did you offer him?”
I keep my expression neutral. ‘‘He offered me something.’’
Monya lets out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as if I’ve just said something amusing. “Is that what he told you? That he was helping you out of kindness?”
I don’t answer, technically he didn’t no.
His eyes glint in the dim light, reading me like an open book. “Tsepov doesn’t do favors, devushka . If he helped you, it’s because he saw an opportunity for himself.”
I don’t deny it. ‘‘He wants a voice in the Vor v Zakone.’’
Monya nods approvingly. ‘‘At least he was honest about that. But tell me, what did he really say to you?’’
I lean back slightly, measuring my words. ‘‘He said something is shifting. The lower ranks are disappearing. Shipments are going wrong. The Odessa group was targeted. He thinks someone is trying to unravel everything from the bottom up.’’
Monya’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s something there, a flicker of consideration, the briefest pause. He was already aware .
‘‘And?’’ he prompts.
I hold his gaze. ‘‘He said if I want to get information about Aslanov, I have to climb the ranks. That I have to bring the truth to the wolves before the lies consume everything. And he said you’d be my first step up the ladder.’’
Monya watches me in silence.
Then, slowly, he exhales, reaching for a cigarette from a silver case on his desk. He lights it, the end glowing softly as he takes a long drag. The smoke curls between us, thick and hazy.
‘‘So Tsepov wants power,’’ he muses. ‘‘That’s nothing new.’’ He exhales, tapping the ash into a small tray. ‘‘But what about you, Isabella?’’
I don’t blink. ‘‘I want answers.’’
His lips curl slightly. ‘‘About Karamazov?’’
“Yes,” I say, my voice steady but my thoughts shifting. I know what he’s doing. He’s poking at me, trying to unsettle me. But I can’t show him it’s working.
Monya leans back in his chair, his hands folding behind his head, elbows spread wide. His eyes flicker with something darker, like he’s enjoying this—whatever this is. He’s playing a game with me, one I didn’t sign up for. But I’m here now, and I’m not backing down.
‘‘You’re so sure you’ll find him, aren’t you?’’ he muses, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
‘‘You’re sure you’ll find more than a dead man, Isabella?’’
His voice is low, almost amused, but there’s a sharp edge to it.
“Because the files say Aslanov is dead. Officially. The Bratva believes it. I believe it.” He leans back in his chair, eyes flickering toward the window, as if the very thought of questioning the truth of Aslanov’s death is beneath him.
“Until there’s proof to the contrary, it’s our reality. ”
I don’t flinch. His skepticism is what I expected. But it’s his next words that hit harder.
“I feel it.” he says, almost to himself, as if testing the air.
“The shift in the underworld. It’s crawling its way up, like a sickness, an illness infecting everything it touches.
The absence of Karamazov... It’s like a hole in the system, and everything below is fighting to fill it.
Rats, Isabella, rats everywhere, scrambling, clawing at anything they can get their hands on.
But that doesn’t change the fact that Karamazov is declared dead. ”
Pain .
“The men in the Bratva, they’re scared. The lower ranks, the power brokers, they’re all feeling it.
They’re scared that someone will take advantage of this power shift.
They’re scared of what’s coming.” He glances back at me, his lips curling into a half-smile that’s more a warning than anything else.
“But they believe Karamazov is gone, and until someone can prove otherwise, that’s the truth they’ll hold on to.
And as far as I’m concerned, you can keep searching for your answers, but you’re not going to find much until you can prove there’s more to the story. Until then... it’s just ghosts.”
The pain stabs deep in my chest, sudden and sharp. He’s right. I have no real proof that Aslanov is still alive, just whispers, just a gut feeling that something isn’t right. The silence that follows presses against me like a weight, suffocating the hope I’ve been clinging to.
A hollow silence falls between us. His words have landed, but I don’t let them settle into my bones. He’s testing me, trying to see if I’ll break under the weight of his certainty. But I won’t let him see that crack. Not now.
I hold his gaze, unblinking, even as the sting of uncertainty lingers.
“You’re right about one thing,” I say, my voice steady but edged with the bite of my challenge.
“There’s fear. But the fear isn’t just because of Aslanov’s absence.
It’s because someone out there is threatening to take more power than they ever thought possible.
They might not even know who yet, but they feel it.
They’re scared that if the power shifts any further, they’ll lose everything. ”