Chapter 47Beneath the Bodies, the Truth Breathes #2
It’s relief. It’s pain. It’s so much worry, so much fear, and yet, somehow, it’s hope. I haven’t felt that in months. Haven’t dared to, not since everything went to shit. I’ve kept pushing forward, hoping to find some sliver of truth, but this... this is something else. Something real.
I blink rapidly, trying to clear the blur in my vision, and look up at Dominik. His eyes are steady, but there’s something in his gaze—something that tells me he understands. He knows the significance of those words, too. He knows what this means for me, for us both.
It’s overwhelming. Too much. And it hits me so damn hard that I feel like I might suffocate in it.
Dominik shifts slightly, the slightest movement that draws my attention.
I meet his gaze once more, and the expression on his face makes my chest ache.
His eyes, those calm, calculating eyes, have softened, the steel replaced by something deeper.
Something that feels almost vulnerable. There’s a faint tremor in his jaw, something that almost looks like regret, but also pain.
And then, almost imperceptibly, a sad smile forms on his lips.
It’s not the kind of smile I’ve seen before, there’s no power in it, no control.
It’s raw, almost broken. Like it’s a reflection of something he’s buried deep down, something he hasn’t allowed himself to feel in years.
And in that fleeting moment, I realize—he’s not just showing me he cares.
It’s more than that. He’s showing me that he understands.
He knows what it’s like to live in the dark, not knowing whether someone you love is alive or dead.
He knows the weight of that uncertainty, that unbearable ache.
He’s carried it himself. And somehow, in the shared space between us, there’s an understanding that stretches across everything that’s happened, all the pain, all the loss.
Tears flood my eyes again, but this time, they don’t feel like weakness.
Dominik’s expression softens, the corners of his mouth twitching into that rare, almost broken smile.
And before I can fully comprehend what’s happening, his arms are around me.
It’s not tentative or awkward. It’s firm, deliberate, the kind of hug that grounds you, that lets you know you’re not alone in your pain.
The tension in the room begins to ease, just a little.
Ada and Sawyer sigh. Ada rubs her eyes as Sawyer rubs the back of his neck.
The air feels less suffocating, less heavy with fear.
The walls between us all are crumbling, piece by piece.
We’re still soldiers, still survivors, still players in a game far too dangerous for any of us to fully comprehend.
But in this moment, there’s no longer a need to be anything other than who we are; human, flawed, scared, and vulnerable.
Dominik lets go of me, and he then leans back in his own seat now.
His hand, still gripping the pen, hovers above the notepad, a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
With a quiet hum, he begins writing— ‘‘You’re the only fool that would care about my cousin.’’
I sniffle as a grin appears on my face.
I watch Ada as she shifts in her seat, her gaze flickering between me and Dominik, her expression softening.
She takes a deep breath, and for a moment, I can feel the weight of everything settling between us, things unsaid, questions unanswered, but all of it connecting in this one shared, fragile moment.
‘‘You were right,’’ Ada says, her voice quiet but firm. Her words catch me off guard. “I didn’t want to believe it, but... you were right all along.”
The relief floods me, too, though it comes in waves, tinged with uncertainty. I can’t speak, not yet. My throat is tight, and even though I nod, acknowledging her, I’m still trying to process everything that’s happened—everything that’s been said.
But before I can lose myself in the swell of emotion again, Ada turns her attention back to Dominik. Her voice is steady, respectful, but there’s an edge to it now, a sense of purpose that tells me this question is something she’s been carrying for a while.
“Dominik,” she begins, her tone measured, “may I ask you something?” Ada’s gaze lingers on Dominik for a moment longer than necessary as she quickly bites her lip.
Dominik looks at her, his expression calm as always, but I can see the subtle shift in his posture, his focus sharpening. He nods once, the gesture simple but enough to signal she has his attention.
Ada takes a breath, then asks carefully, “You mentioned that some of the men in the bunker had connections to the Gambino mafia family.”
I hold my breath, watching them both. Dominik nods, his face unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes that tells me he knows more than he’s letting on.
Ada moves quickly, reaching for her phone with precision. She flicks through a few images, then holds one up to Dominik. My heart races in my chest; the images she showed us about an hour ago appear. The shows him the handwritten annotations with the two different names, but the same handwriting.
Ada doesn’t give him a moment to reply before flicking to the next picture, showing the cryptic initials “N.K” and the name ‘ Sal’ with scribbles drawn through it. She points to it, her finger steady, but her eyes are searching him, waiting.
I feel my pulse quicken as I watch Dominik lean in, squinting at the phone screen. The subtle shift in his expression catches my attention; the way his brow furrows, the tightness in his lips. He’s processing it, I can tell, but I don’t know what he’s seeing or thinking yet.
Ada’s voice cuts through the tension, direct and clear.
“Do you know who these men are?” she asks.
“N.K. is Nick King, he worked in the maximum-security prison as the security head. He was Isabella’s boss, he arrested Aslanov before he disappeared.
His handwriting is the same as the handwriting of this man named Lorenzo, and does the abbreviation of ‘ Sal’ ring any bells? ”
I can feel the weight of the silence pressing in on all of us.
The room feels still, too still, as Dominik looks from the photos to Ada, then back to the screen.
There’s no immediate answer, no quick response.
But something shifts in his gaze. Something in the way he takes in the details tells me that he knows.
The silence in the room grows thicker as Dominik leans over the notepad, his fingers gripping the pen with a deliberate calmness.
He writes, his hand steady but purposeful as he carefully forms the words, as though he’s giving weight to every single letter.
I can see the concentration etched into his face, the way his eyes flick from the notepad to the phone and back again.
It’s like he’s putting together the last pieces of a puzzle, one he’s been working on for far longer than any of us could have imagined.
His pen scratches across the paper as he writes, and I lean in just a bit, barely able to keep my breath steady as I wait for him to finish.
“This is very secretive information, you obtained it before me. This is a crack in the case. Lorenzo is Antonio Lorenzo, the current heir of the Gambino family. The Bratva and the Gambino’s have been rivals ever since existence.
He hid, most likely, under the fake name Nick King.
He got close to Aslanov by being a rat in the police force.
Then that didn’t go as planned, and once he found Aslanov again, he took matters in his own hands. ”
The words are deliberate, measured, as if he’s trying to make sense of something that has taken months to understand.
“I have been searching for months for him,” he writes, “but more and more men were unworthy of trust. More things happened that gained my attention. We had no lead, or rats made sure we had none. The bodies of the men with Bratva marks proof that there are plenty of rats—traitors.”
He takes another pause, his pen resting against the paper. I nod at him, ever so slightly.
“In the beginning, I felt nothing of the trembling and shifts in the organization,” he continues, each word more deliberate than the last, “I was mourning. I didn’t accept my position as pakhan immediately after hearing the news.”
The pen stops moving, and the room feels heavy, suffocating. Dominik leans back, his expression unreadable as he watches me, waiting for my reaction. The silence is thick between us now, filled with all the things unsaid. My mind races, trying to piece together the chaos, the secrets, the lies.
‘‘You... didn’t accept your position right away?’’ I ask, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.
There’s a tightness in my chest, like my heart is clenching at the thought of him, of what he’s been through.
Of how much he’s had to carry alone. I always had a feeling Dominik wouldn’t want the position.
He shakes his head slightly, a subtle gesture, but it confirms everything I had already suspected. Dominik never wanted this. He never asked for this burden. And yet, here he is, shouldering it all, carrying the weight of an entire organization on his shoulders.
I bite my lip, the words bubbling up before I can stop them. ‘‘I know the name of a traitor,’’ I say quietly, my voice steady but with an edge of uncertainty.
His eyes flicker, a spark of interest, though the confusion still lingers in the furrow of his brow. ‘‘Tsepov,’’ I continue, watching him closely, ‘‘and possibly Monya. Two men I encountered on my way to get into the organization.’’
Dominik’s brow furrows deeper as he processes the names, his mind working quickly, trying to place them.
I take a breath, holding his gaze. ‘‘I was planning to get to you through them,’’ I explain slowly, feeling the weight of my own words. ‘‘To talk to you, praying you would help me and would know more about Aslanov. So, I had to start somewhere. And these men... they were my first clues.’’
I pause, letting the tension hang in the air for a moment, before adding, ‘‘That didn’t end so well though.’’
Dominik shakes his head, a faint flicker of disbelief crossing his features.
He doesn’t need to say anything for me to understand the weight of his disapproval.
The way his lips press into a thin line, the subtle tightening of his jaw—it’s clear.
He’s frustrated, but it’s not anger. It’s the quiet frustration of someone who’s seen too many reckless moves before.
‘‘I didn’t know what else to do.’’
Dominik doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he turns to the paper.
He pauses for a moment, the pen hovering, before he finishes the sentence. ‘‘Don’t do anything stupid like that anymore without me, okay? Promise me.’’
His eyes flick to me then, holding my gaze firmly, waiting for an answer. There’s no mistaking it. He’s serious. He’s not asking for my promise lightly. It’s a command wrapped in care, a line he’s drawing in the sand that I can’t ignore.
I hesitate for just a second, feeling the full gravity of the request, before I nod. “Okay, I promise.”
“Okay, and now what is that about with you never listening to me when I ask you something?” Ada hisses, her words tinged with light irritation.
I can’t help but let out a soft laugh, more out of nervousness than anything else. It’s almost automatic, but I know Ada doesn’t find it funny. Her eyes narrow slightly as she watches me, the frustration still there but not harsh, just worn.
Ada mutters under her breath, just loud enough for me to catch, her slight irritation seeping into the words. “Unbelievable…I love you, but seriously.”
‘‘I’m sorry, I’ll pay more attention to it.’’
As Ada and I banter, Dominik remains silent, his pen moving across the paper with quiet precision. Then, without a word, he slides the paper towards us, his expression unreadable.
The paper lands between us, and Ada glances down at it, her irritation quickly shifting to a serious look with a flash of concern.
“No police force arrested Aslanov, but the Gambino Mafia Family imprisoned him. Faking his death, shifting and tilting the power their way. Using him to get to the heart of the Bratva.”