Chapter 43A Sinister Truth and a Lover’s Vow
A Sinister Truth and a Lover’s Vow
Aslanov
The door creaks open. The sudden intrusion of light is a vicious, unmerciful thing, slicing through the pitch black with a force that makes my eyes snap shut. My pulse thuds sluggishly in my veins, my body exhausted from deprivation. I don’t move. Not until I hear the sound.
A plate scraping against the concrete floor.
The scent hits me first; rice, vegetables, real food.
Not the half-rotten scraps they’ve been tossing me like I’m some mongrel left to die in a gutter.
My fingers twitch, dignity warring with desperation.
But it’s already gone. My pride, my composure, it was stripped from me long before this moment.
Like a starving animal, I lunge forward, the chains rattling as I seize the plate and bring it to my lips.
I barely taste it. The food vanishes in rapid, clumsy bites, my throat working furiously to swallow.
Each grain of rice, each piece of vegetable is a mockery, a silent taunt— Look at you now, Aslanov .
A chuckle drifts from the doorway. Slow, amused.
‘‘Oh, how the mighty fall,’’ he muses, stepping inside. The heavy door groans as it shuts behind him, locking us in. He moves with the kind of confidence that only comes from knowing he’s already won.
A sharp click.
The projector hums to life, and my entire world explodes into blinding light.
I recoil, squeezing my eyes shut against the assault.
The brightness sears through my lids, white-hot agony in my skull.
When I finally force my gaze open, blinking through the haze, the screen is there, large, inescapable, a window into my own destruction.
‘‘I thought you’d like to see what’s been happening in your absence,’’ Nick says, his voice dripping with mock sincerity. ‘‘After all, it’s only fair you witness the legacy you so painstakingly built—crumbling to dust.’’
The image sharpens.
New York City.
Bright lights, towering skyscrapers, the city that never sleeps. It’s a place where money flows like water, and blood is spilled just as easily. I know these streets. I ruled these streets.
Not anymore.
A familiar warehouse comes into view, one of our biggest smuggling hubs on the East Coast. Or at least, it was.
Now, it’s a wasteland of charred metal and blackened concrete.
Firefighters move like ghosts through the wreckage, their boots crunching over the remains of an empire reduced to ash. My jaw tightens.
Nick clicks his tongue. ‘‘That one was fun. Your men didn’t even see it coming. We hit the supply line first—shipment containers intercepted at the docks. Everything from weapons to heroin, seized or destroyed. Then, we moved on to the warehouse. Gasoline. A single match. And poof.’’ He gestures dramatically, grinning. ‘‘Gone.’’
The screen flickers. Another image.
A club in Brooklyn. One of ours, no, one of mine. Bodies litter the floor, their blood pooling beneath strobe lights still flickering in the aftermath. My men. My soldiers. Gunned down like dogs.
‘‘I gave them a choice,’’ Nick continues. ‘‘ Join me, or join the dead. Most chose poorly.’’
The images keep coming.
More warehouses, more safe houses, more bodies.
Then, Russia.
‘‘Of course, your reach crosses all borders,’’ Nick says casually, scrolling through the carnage. ‘‘Some of your more... loyal men fled back home, hoping to regroup. I thought it was only polite to pay them a visit.’’
Moscow. St. Petersburg. Rostov-on-Don.
The Tambovskaya Bratva
My operations there weren’t just attacked, they were eradicated.
Men strung up from bridges, their bodies swaying like broken marionettes.
Families torn apart. Weapons caches raided and redistributed under a new banner, Nick’s banner.
Transport routes that once belonged to me now work under his control.
Who the hell is this man?
Then the worst of it.
Trucks. Dozens of them, lined up at a private airstrip. Containers being loaded with product. My product.
‘‘You see, Aslanov,’’ Nick murmurs, stepping closer, ‘‘I didn’t just take your businesses. I became your businesses. Every shipment, every deal, every route—mine now. Your men? Those that survived? They work for me.’’ He tilts his head.
‘‘Well, most of them. The rest… let’s just say they won’t be troubling us anymore. ’’
The final image fills the screen.
A signature. My signature. Forged onto contracts, into ledgers, onto every legal document that keeps the Bratva’s front businesses running.
‘‘A little paperwork,’’ Nick says, smirking.
‘‘Nothing personal, of course. Just needed to make sure everything transitioned smoothly.’’ He leans in, his breath a disgusting taunt.
‘‘Your men are crumbling; the Vor v Zakone will be next. I know they can feel it, the ground rumbling and falling underneath them.’’
The projector clicks off. Darkness swallows the room once more, leaving me with only the echoes of my downfall ringing in my ears.
Nick straightens, adjusting his suit with an air of effortless control. ‘‘Well, I’d love to stay and chat, but unfortunately, I have a new empire to run. I hope you enjoyed your meal. It may be the last kindness you get.’’
The food, real food, sits heavy in my stomach, warmth spreading through my veins like a long-forgotten drug. It doesn’t make me strong, not like I was, but it makes me awake. Present. My mind sharpens in the darkness, the shadows no longer pressing quite as heavy against me.
Nick turns, already halfway to the door, adjusting his cufflinks as if my destruction is nothing more than another business meeting crossed off his list. The sound of his polished shoes echoing against the concrete is too final, too easy. He’s walking away as if I’m already dead.
My voice cuts through the silence, hoarse but steady.
‘‘Can’t I choose my last kindness? Or do you have less dignity than a death row system?’’
Nick stops. A slow chuckle rumbles from his chest, deep and mocking. He doesn’t turn right away, savoring the moment, drawing it out like a predator toying with its prey. Finally, he pivots, his gaze settling on me with something almost amused.
‘‘Bold words from a man in chains.’’
I tilt my head, flexing my fingers against the cold steel binding me, feeling the bite of the metal. The food has given me something else—adrenaline.
‘‘Let me at least know,’’ I murmur, my voice edged with something sharper than desperation. ‘‘Who’s the man behind Nick? The man taking over my empire?’’
Nick’s lips curl, slow and deliberate. He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he drags his tongue across his bottom lip, as if savoring the taste of my question, as if the mere thought of revealing just a sliver of truth is something to be indulged.
His grin stretches wider, that same stupid, infuriating smirk.
‘‘You know, I’m kind of sick of you calling me Nick at this point.’’
He falls into silence, letting the words hang in the air, thick with mockery.
Then, slowly, he leans forward, as if it’s a privilege he’s about to grant. ‘‘I will indulge in a dead man’s last wish, but remember, you asked me for it.’’
He pauses, and his gaze sharpens.
‘‘I’m the head of the Gambino Mafia family.’’
The words hit me harder than anything he’s said so far, each syllable deliberate, like a dagger being twisted in an open wound.
The Gambinos. One of the five most powerful crime families in New York, controlling the East Coast’s underworld, known for their ruthlessness and connections in every corrupt corner of society.
For decades, the Gambinos and the Bratva have been rivals, competing for dominance in every illegal venture from drugs and arms to human trafficking and smuggling. Our worlds collided over and over again, but this, this is something different.
How could I have not known?
The Bratva and the Gambinos have been divided by blood, borders, and an unspoken rule: kings don’t dirty their hands with other kings unless they’re declaring war.
Everything else is handled through layers—middlemen, fixers, whispers in back alleys.
I dealt with the Gambinos, yes, but never directly.
Always through proxies; men in expensive suits who said nothing that could be traced.
And so did Lorenzo. I thought I was the ghost, the one no one could track.
But so was he. We existed in different shadows, orbiting each other like loaded guns in separate rooms, until that prison. Until Isabella. Until now.
He watches me, savoring my silence, the dark gleam in his eyes unwavering.
‘‘I’ve been a dirty fed every now and then,’’ he continues, a wicked smirk tugging at his lips.
‘‘My connections in politics and the police forces made that very possible. I was never just a man of crime, Aslanov. I was the shadow behind the curtain, pulling strings in the most powerful places, bending the system to my will. From senators to detectives, I’ve had them in my pocket.’’
He pauses, letting the weight of his words settle. He knows the power of his connections.
‘‘I made sure the right people stayed paid, the right investigations went nowhere, the right laws were ignored. Hell, even your precious Russian connections were never safe. I moved money, arms, men—whatever I needed, to whichever corner of the world I wanted. And no one questioned it. But I never knew you.’’
He smirks.
‘‘I was in that prison for a different reason. I was there because two of my men got locked up, I needed to fix the situation, besides some other things. But when I saw you in there, you caught my attention. You weren’t like the other inmates. You carried yourself differently, like a man who knew exactly what he was capable of. But back then, I didn’t know who you were.
The man behind the face. I never encountered you before, not in the circles I run in. We were unaware of each other.’’
He lets the thought hang in the air for a moment, letting me digest it.