Chapter 47Beneath the Bodies, the Truth Breathes
Beneath the Bodies, the Truth Breathes
Isabella
We’ve been sitting at this table for nearly half an hour now.
I can feel the weight of the silence pressing down on me, thick and suffocating, like I’m drowning in it, unable to find the surface.
Ada and Sawyer are tense beside me, their unease so palpable that it feels like it’s vibrating in the air between us.
They’re trying to hide it, trying to pretend they’re not scared of Dominik, but it’s there.
The way they both keep glancing at him, like they’re waiting for him to make the first move, like they’re bracing themselves for whatever comes next.
I’ve told Dominik everything. Every single thing I’ve been holding inside.
All the months of searching, all the lies we’ve uncovered, the questions we can’t answer, and the things that don’t make sense.
The hunt for Aslanov. The mysterious disappearance of Nick.
The records that don’t add up. The way everything feels wrong.
Like we’re all caught in something dark, something dangerous, and I can’t see the way out.
I look at Dominik now. His gaze has never left me, those calm eyes.
Not since I began speaking. I can’t read him; unlike Aslanov, he is a lot calmer.
But there’s something in his silence, something in the way his fingers tap lightly against his glass, that tells me he’s listening, taking in every word I say.
There’s a flicker in his eyes then, something that almost feels like recognition.
For the briefest moment, I see it; a fleeting glimpse of pain, a pain that mirrors my own, and it hits me in the chest like a physical blow.
I’ve never really allowed myself to acknowledge it, but it’s there now, undeniable. We both miss him.
I don’t know if he even knows that we’re both still carrying him with us, like ghosts lingering in the shadows of our lives. But it’s there. The ache. The weight of the things we lost. The ones we lost.
Dominik blinks, and the moment passes, buried beneath layers of control. He looks down at his glass, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around it, and I wonder if he’s thinking about the same thing I am. About how everything has changed. About how we’ve both changed.
I wonder if he ever wanted to become this, to become the pakhan .
Before I can lose myself in my thoughts any longer, I hear a voice, sharp, cutting through the tension.
“Can’t you speak?” Sawyer’s words slice through the thick silence, his tone laced with frustration, though I can hear the edge of nervousness underneath.
I glance over at him, surprised, but I can’t help it. The question has been hanging in the air, consuming them both since we first sat down, and now Sawyer has given it voice. It feels like the pressure is building, the anticipation almost unbearable.
Dominik’s gaze shifts slowly toward Sawyer.
There’s no immediate response, just a heavy, calculating stare, as though he’s deciding how to handle the interruption.
I can feel the weight of his silence bearing down on us all.
Every second stretches out, making the moment feel even more tense, until I wonder if we’ll all suffocate in it.
Then, finally, Dominik opens his mouth.
The movement is slow and deliberate. He’s not in a rush to respond. And when he does, the scar on his mouth is visible. The scar that runs jagged and ugly across his lips, where his tongue was cut out.
The rawness of it is hard to ignore, but it’s the way Dominik doesn’t even flinch at the sight that makes it all the more haunting. He’s so used to it, so hardened, that it barely registers to him anymore.
Sawyer’s breath hitches in his throat, and he shifts back in his seat just slightly, his face paling as his eyes widen. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, more to himself than anyone else, before he quickly averts his gaze, clearly unsettled.
I watch them both closely. Sawyer’s discomfort is palpable, and even Ada seems to flinch just slightly. I can’t blame them. That scar, Dominik’s silence, speaks volumes about the man he was forced to be. It tells a story none of us have ever fully heard, me included.
Dominik’s gaze doesn’t linger on Sawyer for much longer.
His eyes shift back to me, that same calm, controlled intensity settling back into his expression.
There’s no malice, no harshness in his stare, just a quiet understanding, the kind of calm that settles deep into the bones, making everything feel still, even when the world around us is anything but.
The silence hangs between us, thick and oppressive. Ada and Sawyer remain tense, their unease palpable, but I can’t shake the feeling that Dominik is simply waiting. Waiting for the right moment to speak, to break the tension that seems to have wrapped itself around us all.
Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he reaches for a notepad sitting on the table.
The motion is smooth, almost graceful, and when he throws it down in front of him, followed by a pen, the sound is almost gentle against the silence.
I watch, my heart thudding in my chest, as he picks up the pen, his fingers steady despite the weight of the moment.
Dominik doesn’t rush, taking a moment to collect his thoughts, his gaze still focused on me.
And then, his hand moves, drawing slow, deliberate lines across the paper.
The scratch of the pen against the notepad is faint, like a whisper in the room, but it somehow feels louder than the silence itself.
When he finishes, he slides the notepad gently toward me, his movements calm, careful.
But it’s Ada’s reaction that catches my attention first.
Her hand tightens around the handle of her weapon. The subtle shift in her posture—the way her fingers curl just slightly, ready to move at the slightest hint of danger—doesn’t go unnoticed. I can practically feel the tension snap in the air.
Dominik’s eyes flick to her. For a split second, there’s a flicker of something in his gaze—something that’s almost apologetic, but not quite.
Then, without a hint of urgency, he raises his hands slowly in surrender, palms facing her, his movements smooth and controlled, as though to show he poses no threat.
His gaze stays locked on Ada, but it’s a calm reassurance, not a challenge. The tension that had crept into her stance doesn’t disappear entirely, but the harshness in her grip on her weapon loosens just a fraction. Still, she doesn’t relax, not fully.
I glance down at the paper, my stomach flipping. The words are simple, almost deceptively so, but their weight presses down on me like a stone sinking in water. I read the words quietly, trying to make sense of them, trying to understand the meaning behind them:
“Are you positive you want to hear the truth?”
I look up, meeting his gaze once more. His expression is gentle, his eyes calm but steady, as though he’s waiting for something, waiting for me to make the next move.
He knows more.
“Yes,” I manage to say, the word a rasp in my throat. “Yes, I do. What is it that you know?”
For a moment, Dominik doesn’t respond. He just watches me, his eyes steady, but there’s something there, a flicker of doubt that doesn’t quite reach his calm exterior. It’s almost like he’s waiting for me to back down, to hesitate, to take the easy way out.
But I can’t. Not now. I can’t walk away from this, not when we’re so close to the truth.
I shove the notepad back toward him, the movement sharp. My hand trembles slightly, but I don’t care. “Please,” I say, my voice a little more desperate than I intend, “just tell me. Tell me what you know.”
Dominik hesitates for a moment, his gaze flicking from the notepad to me, and then to the others in the room.
His hand hovers above the paper as though he’s debating whether or not to write it down.
Finally, with a sigh that seems to carry the weight of everything he’s been holding back, he picks up the pen.
His writing is quick, almost urgent, and as he scribbles the words on the notepad, I can feel the tension building again. It’s a lot, a whole damn essay on a paper. I lean in, my breath catching in my chest, as he finishes and slides the paper back to me.
“A few hours ago, we discovered a bunker. Abandoned. Underground. No one would have ever been able to find it, wasn’t for a signal that we intercepted—a faint transmission, something that hadn’t quite been erased, like a ghost in the noise.
It led us to it. A dozen bodies, all dead.
Petrov among them. No Aslanov. But there are signs.
DNA. He’s been there. Weeks, possibly months.
Locked in confinement. Undergoing torture.
He wasn’t dead... but we don’t know if he’s alive now.
There were bodies of Russian men, but also others.
Different nationalities. And they just reported to me that these men have ties with the Gambino mafia. ”
A tight knot forms in my throat, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. My mind races back to every sleepless night, every moment of doubt, every time I wondered if I was wrong, if I had miscalculated, if I had been chasing a ghost.
He wasn’t dead.
The words hit me like a wave, crashing into my chest, overwhelming everything I thought I knew.
He wasn’t dead. Despite everything, despite the pain and the years, the fear I had buried deep down, he was still out there.
Alive… or at least he had been. The not knowing, the uncertainty, is both a relief and a new kind of terror all on its own.
Tears well up in my eyes, unbidden, and before I can stop them, they spill down my cheeks. My throat tightens, and I fight to steady myself, to keep my composure. But it’s too much. I croak out a sob, soft, broken.