Chapter 58Veins of Deceit, Threads of Truth
Veins of Deceit, Threads of Truth
Isabella
The clinic doesn’t feel like a place for the living anymore.
The walls seem thinner tonight, the light grayer, the cold so deep it feels stitched into the concrete. It’s not just a building. It’s a mausoleum for the things we haven’t yet buried, rage, loyalty, debts soaked in blood.
We gather at the long, battered table that’s seen too many desperate plans scratched out under too little hope.
Dominik sits at one end, a statue carved from storms and sleeplessness, his hands clasped loosely in front of him as if they’re the only thing tethering him here.
Sawyer sprawls at the far side, his usual restless energy dimmed to something heavier, something lethal.
Ada is beside me, the glow of her tablet washing her sharp features in cold blue, her mouth drawn tight, unreadable.
And Karpov.
Karpov slides into the last chair without a word, bringing with him the stink of the outside world, rusted metal, cigarette smoke, and a violence so old it smells almost sweet.
I asked him to come. He was the one who opened the door to the devil’s envoy for us.
Because tonight, devils are the only ones who know how to navigate hell.
For a long moment, none of us speak. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, a thin, electric whine, like the building itself is holding its breath.
Different people, yet so similar.
We have been discussing for over an hour.
We’re discussing things we think we know, and we assume we know.
‘‘I think we should involve him,’’ I suddenly say.
The words barely leave my mouth before the room turns colder. Everyone looks at me; Dominik like a man bracing for impact, like he knows what Aslanov might do, Sawyer like he’s just waiting for a reason to say no. Even Ada lifts her eyes from the tablet, her face unreadable in the pale blue glow.
‘‘He knows things we don’t,’’ I say, pushing forward before they can shut me down. ‘‘Or things we think we know but don’t. He’s stable enough. He’s ready.’’
Karpov swallows. I see the movement; stiff, uneasy.
He doesn’t belong here, not really. Not with the old violence on him like a second skin.
He’s spent years trying to crack Aslanov from the outside, or the Bratva in itself, scraping against locked doors, chasing ghosts.
But he’s never stood in front of the man himself.
Never stared into the black hole that eats weaker men alive.
He has never met the man behind the reports and clues he has chased for years.
And now I’m asking him to step even closer.
Sawyer leans back in his chair, arms crossed tight over his chest, his jaw grinding. ‘‘I don’t like it,’’ he says. His voice is a low scrape against the cold air. ‘‘He’s a live wire. He could snap.’’
I don’t argue. I just look at him and ask, ‘‘Does keeping him restrained make you feel better?’’
He doesn’t even hesitate. ‘‘Yes. Absolutely. That isn’t even optional.’’
I nod, once, deliberate. No judgment. I understand him, I understand his side.
‘‘Then can he join?’’ I ask. ‘‘Are we ready to hear his side?’’
Behind me, I can hear Aslanov’s steps, quieter, heavier, following close to my shorter frame.
I don’t look back.
I don’t need to. I can feel him there, solid and silent, a pressure at my back like a gathering storm.
The others are already at the table when we round the corner. Dominik sits rigid, a living wall of calm. Sawyer’s legs are sprawled out under the table, but his fingers tap, sharp and arrhythmic, against the scarred wood. Ada watches, tablet forgotten on the table.
Karpov, Karpov looks like he’s been hit between the eyes.
His mouth is slightly open, and his wide, stunned gaze locks onto Aslanov like he’s staring at a ghost he’s spent years chasing but never expected to catch.
Aslanov scans the room immediately, a soldier’s habit, methodical, almost lazy in how thorough it is. His gaze flicks to the exits, the shadows, the hands at the table. Calculating. Measuring. You can never take the Devil out of the man.
I stop a few steps from the table and clear my throat. ‘‘Uhm... maybe you should all introduce yourselves shortly,’’ I say, the words feeling absurd in the heavy, crackling air.
Aslanov doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even twitch.
He just lowers himself into the chair I pull out for him, the one between Dominik and me.
His movements are slow, almost casual, but I can see the strain in his shoulders, the careful control in the way he moves with the velcro restraints still fastened tight around his wrists. A formality, maybe. Or a warning.
The scar between his eyes, that sharp, angry line, looks softer now, less raw. Healing, but still there. A reminder.
He leans back in the chair, wrists resting lightly on the table.
Ada’s voice breaks the silence first. ‘‘I’m Ada as you know,’’ she says, her gaze flicking briefly to Aslanov before returning to the table.
‘‘Used to work in the police force, but quit. Now I’m a nurse at the clinic.’’ Her words are clipped, professional, nothing more than the bare minimum. She doesn’t give anything away.
Sawyer follows quickly, his voice edged, like he’s already had enough of this.
‘‘I’m Sawyer,’’ he says, keeping it short.
‘‘Ex-army medic.’’ His eyes stay locked on Aslanov as if daring him to say something, but there’s a twitch in his jaw, something raw under the surface, something he’s keeping tight.
Karpov swallows hard before speaking, like the words are coming up from the pit of his stomach.
‘‘Name’s Viktor,’’ he says, his voice steady but carrying the weight of years behind it.
‘‘I’m a retired detective. Worked cases from the New York underworld... and the Bratva.’’ He says it slow, like he’s testing the air, trying to gauge how it will land.
Aslanov’s lips twitch into a smirk, a glint of amusement flashing in his eyes. He tilts his head slightly, the sarcasm practically dripping from his next words.
“Viktor,” he drawls, dragging out the name. “A retired detective, huh? Must’ve been hard wasting all those years chasing ghosts for a paycheck. Tell me, did you ever catch anything worth your time, or just play at being useful until they finally kicked you out?”
I lean forward slightly, catching Aslanov’s eye before he can twist the knife deeper.
“Enough,” I say, my voice low but firm, cutting through the tension before it can spiral.
There’s no anger in my tone, just a warning, like tugging back the leash before the dog can lunge.
“These people helped me find you,” I remind him, keeping my voice even, my stare steady. “You can drop the tough guy act for five minutes.”
Aslanov’s smirk lingers a second too long, testing me, maybe, but eventually he shifts back in his chair, the glint in his eyes cooling to something more contained.
‘‘Yes, ma’am’’
I ignore the bait. ‘‘Let’s get started.’’
Ada silently pulls her tablet back toward her, the screen lighting up her face again. She sets a small laptop beside it, fingers poised, ready to type and search as needed.
Karpov leans forward, laying out a few worn folders and a scattering of grainy photographs across the battered table. His hands are steady, but there’s a tightness in the way he moves, a tension thrumming just beneath his skin.
Sawyer sits back, arms crossed, watching everything unfold with sharp, wary eyes. Dominik doesn’t move at all, a silent, looming presence.
I clear my throat. ‘‘Let’s start simple,’’ I say, keeping my tone as neutral as I can. ‘‘Do you remember where they held you?’’
For the first time, real tension creeps into Aslanov’s body. His hands flex slightly against the restraints.
‘‘An underground bunker,’’ he says after a moment, voice rough. ‘‘Some old base, I think. I didn’t see much. They kept it dark. Moved me around when I was blindfolded or I was so out of it to observe.’’
I nod slowly, jotting that down. ‘‘Okay. What happened after you got arrested? Take me through it, step by step.’’
Aslanov’s gaze darkens, and for a second, I think he might shut down. But then he speaks, voice low, almost detached.
‘‘I was escorted somewhere... abandoned. No civilians around. It smelled like oil, rust. Industrial.’’ He pauses, jaw tightens. ‘‘They drugged me. I could feel it; something was in my system. I could hear them talking, but I couldn’t move. Couldn’t fight back.’’
The room is so quiet I can hear the soft tap of Ada’s fingers against the tablet.
‘‘They faked my death,’’ Aslanov says, his voice hard now, his mouth curling into something bitter. ‘‘Made sure the right people thought I was gone. Afterwards, they loaded me onto a plane. I didn’t know where I was going. Could barely stay conscious.’’
He exhales slowly, like dragging the memories up is costing him.
‘‘When I woke up... I was in a cell.’’ He glances up, locking eyes with me. ‘‘Petrov was there too.’’
I keep my voice steady as I lean in a little closer. ‘‘Where is Petrov now?’’ I ask. ‘‘Did he have anything to do with it?’’
Aslanov’s face barely changes, but something flickers behind his eyes — something old and heavy.
‘‘No,’’ he says shortly. ‘‘He’s dead.’’
The words hit the room like a dropped stone.
‘‘He asked me to kill him,’’ Aslanov adds, voice rougher now, like the memory scrapes something raw inside him. ‘‘Before they could.’’
He swallows hard, the muscles in his throat working, and for a moment, he doesn’t look like The Devil everyone’s so afraid of, just another man who’s been through hell and came out dragging pieces of it behind him.
I stiffen before I can stop myself, the cold crawling a little higher up my spine. Across the table, even Dominik’s steady mask cracks, just for a second, his brows pulling together in something that almost looks like shock.
Karpov twitches in his seat, shifting like he can’t quite get comfortable, the weight of it pressing too hard on old instincts.
‘‘Because of him I was able to escape, they wanted to end us both.’’