Chapter 44Erased from Life, Knowing and Paper
Erased from Life, Knowing and Paper
Isabella
Ada shifts beside me, adjusting the strap of the tactical bag slung over her shoulder.
She’s dressed for function, not for fashion; a fitted black turtleneck tucked into combat pants, her hair swept into a no-nonsense ponytail.
Her coat, long and heavy, hides the holster strapped beneath her arm, but I know it’s there.
She hasn’t let me out of her sight since we returned, and I know without asking that she’s armed.
I never knew she even owned a gun, until I saw it positioned on the kitchen table.
Sawyer stands to my right, broad-shouldered and unmoving, his stance a silent declaration of his presence.
He wears a tailored charcoal suit, deceptively polished despite the glint of something lethal beneath his cuff.
His dark eyes scan the building ahead with the focus of a man trained to anticipate every threat before it comes.
I feel small between them, and maybe that’s what they want, to make sure I know I’m safe.
But there’s a part of me that resents it, that chafes under their unwavering protection.
I want to be strong, to stand on my own, but today I am not.
Today, my body is weak. My head is heavy, and every step feels like wading through water.
I adjust my coat around me, a heavy wool piece in a deep wine-red color, one of the few indulgences Ada forced upon me before we left the house.
Underneath, I wear a simple black sweater and leggings, soft and comforting against my skin.
I’ve lost weight I never noticed I had. The fabric hangs a little looser than it should.
The thought is distant, barely a whisper in my mind, drowned out by the dull ache in my stomach.
My fingers twitch before I can stop them, and I press my palm over my stomach, cupping the space that should still be full. But it isn’t. It hasn’t been for a few days now. The hollowness is a quiet, aching thing, a phantom pain I can’t shake.
A car honks somewhere in the distance, and the sound jars me back to the present. I inhale sharply, straightening my shoulders, forcing my expression into something neutral.
Ada catches the movement. Her gaze flicks downward, just for a second, to where my hand rests against my stomach. But she doesn’t say anything. Not now. Instead, she nods toward the entrance.
‘‘Let’s find a spot where we’ll have a good overview of the place.’’
The warm, ambient glow of the lobby envelopes us as we step inside, the plush carpet beneath our feet muffling the sound of our footsteps.
It’s grand, understated luxury—polished marble floors and low, intimate lighting that makes the room feel both vast and cozy at the same time.
Soft murmurs of conversation float around us, and the clink of glasses signals the presence of others already enjoying their evening.
I am not dressed for the occasion, but I couldn’t care less.
I guide Ada and Sawyer to a table near the corner, strategically positioned so we can see the entire room without drawing attention.
There’s a slight tension between us as we settle in, but it’s the kind that comes with being on edge, poised for anything.
It’s the kind of stillness that precedes a storm.
Once seated, Ada immediately orders a drink for herself, a glass of red wine, while Sawyer opts for a neat vodka.
I, despite the cold knot of anxiety sitting heavily in my chest, ask for a glass of water.
Something to cool the nerves, to ground me in this moment.
As the waiter walks off, I glance at my two companions and lean back in my seat, taking a steadying breath.
‘‘I told you about the message, right?’’ I break the silence, my voice low, carrying the weight of the information I shared earlier. ‘‘Sasha is Aslanov’s aunt.’’
‘‘So she is Dominik’s mother?’’ Sawyer states with a hint of a question lingering.
‘‘That’s correct.’’
Ada’s eyes flicker with concern, but there’s understanding there, too. “You’re sure we can trust her information?” she asks quietly, her gaze intense.
“I wouldn’t have come here if I wasn’t,” I reply softly, but with conviction.
There’s a brief, uncomfortable silence as we all sit with the implications of what’s at stake. Then, Sawyer breaks it with a chuckle, lifting his glass to his lips. “Well, if this works out, I think we should bring Sasha a truck full of chocolates.”
Ada snorts, a small laugh escaping her. “Right, as if we need another reason to bribe someone.”
Sawyer grins. “Hey, it’s a practical gesture. She’s given us information we could’ve never obtained, or it would’ve taken us until we were 60 to find out. And to be honest, we’d probably be dead before then.”
“Isabella,” she says, her voice low but serious now, “do you know for sure that Dominik is the current Pakhan now?’’
I take a breath, feeling the weight of her gaze on me. “It has to be,” I reply, my voice steady but carrying an edge of certainty. “It’s decided by blood. He’s the closest to the previous Pakhan ; Dominik was always going to take that place if needed. It’s not just a title; it’s in their blood.”
Sawyer leans forward, his gaze sharp. “Ada, did you find anything in the files on Nick? Karpov got you that stack, right?”
Ada sighs, rubbing her temples as she sets her glass down. “Nothing, Sawyer. Not a single thing about Nick. I went through everything—police records, internal investigations... but his name doesn’t show up anywhere.”
I frown, confusion creeping into my voice. “What do you mean? He was in the police force. He should be there.”
“That’s what’s strange,” she says, her tone low and frustrated. “Nick isn’t in any of the police records. Not in the internal files, no disciplinary reports, no incidents. It’s like he never existed in the system. Even though we know he was a part of it, there’s not a single trace of him.”
Sawyer’s brow furrows. “You’re saying a former cop, a guy who worked within the system, has no record at all? Not even a mention in the system?”
“Exactly,” Ada replies, her eyes narrowing.
I sit back in my seat, feeling the weight of her words settle. ‘‘That doesn’t make sense. Who the hell is he? We need to dig deeper, maybe Dominik can help.’’
I pause, ‘‘If he still remembers me.’’
Ada bites her lip, her expression turning thoughtful as she glances at me. “Actually, I did find something else interesting… It’s not about Nick, but it is about this Lorenzo guy—the one from the file you got.”
I turn to her, intrigued. “What about him?”
“Antonio Lorenzo. That name came up in one of the older, archived registries, buried in one of Karpov’s encrypted drives. Not something that was easy to find, which tells me someone wanted it kept that way.”
She pulls her phone from her bag and slides it across the table to me. The screen glows softly with a scanned page—grainy, aged, handwritten annotations running along the margins. Ada taps a line in the middle.
“That’s Lorenzo. But look one name underneath him.”
I squint, leaning in. My stomach dips.
“N. K.,” I read aloud, the letters catching like thorns in my throat. “That’s Nick, isn’t it? Nick King?”
Ada exhales slowly. “I think so. It fits, the timeline, the placement, the context.’’
‘‘The time stamp lines up with the years Nick was supposedly in the police force.’’
I stare at the screen, heart thudding. Then something else catches my eye; a name above Lorenzo’s. Faint. Smudged. The ink darker in places, as though someone had tried to scratch it out.
“Wait,” I murmur, tapping the spot. “What about this one? The name right above his. It starts with ‘ Sal’ but the rest is… gone. Scribbled through.”
Ada leans in, frowning. “Yeah. I noticed that too. The ink’s been deliberately dragged across the page, like someone didn’t just want it hidden, they wanted it erased.”
“Sal… what?” I ask, more to myself than anyone.
Ada shakes her head, frustration flickering across her face. “I don’t know. There’s too little to go on. No surname, no initials, no location tags—just ‘Sal’ and then a mess. It could lead back to anyone. Or maybe it’s a code name.’’
I run my hands across my face in frustration, the mess only seems to grow bigger.
‘‘I also found this,’’ Ada adds sharing my frustration.
She flicks to another screen, overlaying two handwritten notes; one from the registry, one from a document in Karpov’s files.
“Same handwriting of both handwritten annotations,” she says. “I ran it through the scanner twice to be sure.”
Sawyer lets out a low whistle. “You’re saying Nick had ties to Antonio Lorenzo?’’
Ada doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes stay fixed on the screen, lips pressed into a thin line. The silence stretches.
Then finally, she speaks, quietly, like the words weigh more than she wants to admit.
“We can’t find anything about Nick. Nothing concrete. No service record, no digital footprint, not even a trace in police databases. It’s like he doesn’t exist. And now, suddenly, this—a name, or maybe just initials—connected to that man…”
Another long pause follows. The kind that knots the air around us.
She glances at me, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m starting to wonder if they’re the same person . ”