Chapter 58Veins of Deceit, Threads of Truth #2
I feel it; the way my heart dips heavy in my chest, the way something aches sharp and unwelcome behind my ribs. But I press it down, shove it into the back of my mind.
Ada taps a key, and the wall-mounted screen behind her flickers to life, casting a pale, ghostly glow over the room. The scanned documents, grainy, marked with age and secrecy—fill the space with an eerie weight.
‘‘We want to ask you about Nick.’’
Aslanov shifts slightly, his shoulders tightening as he glances up at the screen. His eyes narrow, reading fast, taking it all in with that same razor-sharp calculation he’s never quite managed to hide.
I watch him closely. Watch how he absorbs every detail like it’s ammunition, his whole body coiling tighter the longer he stares.
‘‘We found these buried deep,’’ I say, my voice sounding rough in the heavy air. ‘‘Tied to people you might know... or might have crossed without realizing it.’’
I can see the moment Aslanov’s gaze snags on the names; on N.K. , the smudged-out ‘Sal’, and Lorenzo . His jaw clenches almost imperceptibly.
‘‘Anything you recognize?’’ Ada asks, voice careful, non-threatening.
Aslanov keeps staring at the screen, like he could burn the information into his skull if he just looked hard enough. His wrists flex slightly against the restraints, a barely-there twitch of muscle, as if his whole body is fighting the instinct to move, to act.
Ada shifts, pulling up another screen, the side-by-side comparison of the annotations.
‘‘We couldn’t find anything concrete on Nick King,’’ she says, her voice low. ‘‘Like he doesn’t exist. No files, no service records... nothing. But we found the name Lorenzo, multiple times. And these two handwritten notes, the ones mentioning N.K. and Lorenzo...’’
She taps the screen lightly. ‘‘I ran them through analysis. Same handwriting. Same person.’’
The room holds its breath.
For a long moment, Aslanov doesn’t move. Then, finally, he breaks the silence, his voice rough and sure, slicing through the thick air.
‘‘These two men are indeed one man,’’ he says. His eyes flick to Dominik, something dark and certain sparking behind them.
‘‘And his name is Antonio Lorenzo,’’ he finishes, his mouth curving into something that isn’t quite a smile, it’s anger.
‘‘The Gambino mafia boss.’’
The words hit like a gunshot in a silent room.
I stare at him, my mind scrambling to catch up. ‘‘So... my boss at work,’’ I say slowly, the words tasting foreign, unreal on my tongue, ‘‘was a mafia boss?’’
The room seems to shrink around me. My heart thuds once, hard, before everything goes very still.
Ada leans forward, her voice steady despite the chaos flickering behind her eyes. ‘‘We were on the right track, then.’’ She flicks the screen to a new set of images, deeper files, more connections, more proof. She turns back to Aslanov.
‘‘Was he the one who held you captive?’’
Aslanov nods, once. The movement is sharp, controlled.
‘‘Yes,’’ he says. ‘‘I only saw his face clearly. But I know there were others, rats from the Bratva. Their accents slipped. It wasn’t a one-man job.’’
I sit there, still stunned, the pieces twisting into a shape I don’t want to recognize.
But something doesn’t add up, something in the way Aslanov’s jaw stays tight, in the way his gaze keeps cutting toward me. He’s holding something back. He is acting strange.
The silence stretches until Sawyer, sharp as ever, cuts through it.
‘‘And the scribbled-out name?’’ he asks, voice low but firm. ‘‘The ‘Sal’ what’s that about?’’
Aslanov’s mouth pulls into a thin, grim line.
‘‘Salvatore,’’ he says. His voice dips even lower, colder. ‘‘The previous boss of the Gambinos. Lorenzo’s brother.’’
Before any of us can react, Dominik moves, two quick signs flashed across the table, his hands sharp and precise.
Aslanov answers without missing a beat, his eyes not leaving mine.
‘‘He told me himself,’’ he says. ‘‘Right before he planned to execute me.’’
Ada exhales sharply, breaking the silence. ‘‘Fuck,’’ she mutters under her breath. ‘‘We were right.’’
But something’s wrong.
Aslanov’s whole frame is tensing, tightening like a wire about to snap. His eyes narrow, the flicker of something dark moving through them; not fear, not anger exactly. Something heavier.
I lean forward instinctively. ‘‘What’s wrong?’’ I ask, trying to keep my voice even.
Aslanov doesn’t answer right away. He shifts, muscles coiling.
‘‘I don’t feel right,’’ he mutters, but it’s a lie , I can hear it. Feel it.
Across the room, Sawyer stiffens, sensing it too.
‘‘He’s spiraling,’’ Sawyer says tightly, stepping back. ‘‘Take him out. Now.’’
And that’s all it takes.
In a blur of movement, Aslanov surges forward, two strides, fast and brutal, knocking the chair aside like it’s nothing. His cuffed wrists grab Sawyer’s collar with a force that makes the air suck right out of the room. He’s stronger, more dangerous than any of us are.
Everyone at the table shoots to their feet, chairs scraping violently against the floor.
Aslanov’s whole body radiates fury, something feral and coiled, the side of him they tried to chain down, slipping loose.
Sawyer, pinned but unflinching, snarls back at him, his hands gripping Aslanov’s arms but unable to shove him off.
‘‘I don’t trust you,’’ he spits through clenched teeth.
And then lower, cutting deep where it hurts the most:
‘‘You’re a fucking psychopath. You can’t love. You should’ve stayed away from her. All you’ve ever done is hurt her.’’
The words hang there, brutal, final.
Aslanov’s hands falter. His grip slackens.
At the mention of me, of what I mean to him, it’s like he’s been gut-punched.
The fury bleeds out of him in a sharp, raw twist.
Without a word, he shoves Sawyer away, hard enough to make him stumble, and storms from the room, the hallway swallowing him whole as he disappears into his own space, the door slamming shut behind him with a final, echoing thud.
He locked himself in.
The room stays frozen, breathless, the aftershock trembling in the air.
It’s clear now, those two don’t like each other.
‘‘Why the fuck would you say that?!’’ I hiss at Sawyer, who is fixing his collar.
But my words are barely out before something deeper creeps in, something darker.
I feel it; the gnawing suspicion that Aslanov’s not telling the whole truth.
That there’s something more he’s hiding, something he’s not willing to say, and I can feel it in the pit of my stomach, that cold knot of unease.
The weight of everything presses down on me, heavier than ever. The lies. The secrets. The way he looks at me, like I’m some fragile thing to be protected or destroyed. I can’t breathe. My chest is tight, the walls closing in.
This entire mess.
Two mafia families.
I need to move. I need to escape this room, this suffocating air, before I drown in it.
I grab my coat from the back of the chair, the fabric brushing my fingers like a lifeline. My heart is racing, my mind spinning with questions and half-formed thoughts that don’t make any sense. The only thing I can think about is getting out of here.
Ada calls after me, her voice laced with worry, but I don’t stop. I don’t even slow down.
‘‘Isabella!’’ she yells, trying to catch up, but I don’t hear her. Dominik reaches out, his hand grasping for my arm, but I’m already pulling away, moving faster.
I can’t be here. I can’t stay.
I burst through the door, the cool air of the evening hitting me like a slap in the face.
My boots pound the pavement, my breath coming fast, every step taking me farther from the weight of their eyes, the tension, the mess of it all.
I don’t know where I’m going, but I don’t care.
I just need to be alone, to sort through the chaos in my head, to make sense of it all before it consumes me.
Behind me, I hear Ada’s voice, distant, almost pleading. But it’s too late. I’m already disappearing into the night.