Chapter 66
In the Presence of the ‘Dead’, and the Soon-to-Be Dead
Aslanov
They are already gathered when I step into the room. Five bodies, five storms contained in flesh. Isabella sits nearest the fire, her shoulders drawn tight with exhaustion she’ll never admit to.
She feels me before she sees me.
I know it by the way her spine stiffens slightly, her head tilting the smallest degree, not alarm, not fear. Just awareness. Like her body’s become attuned to mine, even in silence. Especially in silence.
Her gaze lifts as I enter, sharp as always, but there’s something else behind her eyes now, something searching, maybe even hoping. She looks like a blade, curled and hidden in velvet, unsure if it’s meant to wound or protect anymore.
I’m not the same man with people around as when I’m alone with her. It’s a part only she’ll ever get to see.
Ada is hunched over her laptop, eyes flickering with reflected code.
She doesn’t look up, but I feel her tension, hyperaware, wired like a trap.
Her fingers never stop moving, she’s used to danger.
Beside her, Sawyer leans back in his chair, all lazy posture and a glint of predator beneath it.
His fingers toy with a silver lighter, casual but always ready.
Always watching. I’ve come to respect him more.
Across from them sits Karpov, the old bastard; we would have been enemies in another life.
He cradles a thick folder in his lap like it’s a bomb, and by the look in his eyes, he’s been waiting his whole life to light the fuse.
And Dominik. My brother. My blood. My mirror.
He stands in the far corner, arms behind his back, posture straight as a soldier. He says nothing—he hasn’t in years, not since they took his tongue—but Dominik never needed words. His presence speaks louder than most men’s voices ever could. His eyes track me as I move, burning with unspoken fire.
I don’t announce myself. I don’t need to. No one rises. No one speaks. Their silence is not out of fear, it’s instinct. I’ve been a myth for too long now. A ghost draped in threat. But tonight, I take my seat at the head of this table. It has sat empty for months. That will soon end.
Isabella watches me closely. She’s always searching; for warmth, for softness, for the man buried under the armor. She won’t find him. Not here. Not with everyone around. But I nod once, and that’s all it takes.
Dominik moves. With precision, he unfolds a single piece of paper and slides it across the table to me. The writing is sharp, almost violent in its clarity.
‘‘Maxim Lazovsky. The rat. He’s turned Zakharov and Yegorov. They held a meeting without me. Dimitri recorded it, the only loyal one left. They want me dead.’’
I read it. I don’t blink. Then I take the small black drive he produces from his coat. Cold. Smooth. Heavy with truth. My fingers close around it, and the room shifts.
Isabella peeks over and furrows her brows, ‘‘We have heard of that name before, haven’t we?’’ She turns to look at Ada, and in return, Ada stares at the ink on paper.
‘‘Yes, you’re right. That name was on Aslanov’s fake deceased report, amongst some other names.
Lorenzo’s name was on it, too, but we just had no idea who he was and how he was involved. ’’
My knuckles turn white from squeezing my fingers, there rats.
Lazovsky
Though the name doesn’t surprise me. The hunger was always there. The way he watched me like a man waiting to inherit the bones of a greater predator. I gave him nothing but silence. That silence clearly wasn’t enough. It is never enough for men lurking in the closest shadows, craving power.
He didn’t think I’d still be breathing.
Good.
‘‘Give me those names on that file; these are all possible rats.’’
Without a word, I slide the drive across the table to Ada.
Her hands move quickly, and soon voices spill from the speakers, Russian, brittle, conspiratorial.
The audio is rough, laced with static, but the words cut through.
No one understands, except me and Dominik.
They name Dominik. And they name me like I’m a ghost they’ve already buried a very long time ago. Sad to hear they don’t miss me.
They speak of removing the last Karamazov. They speak of a funeral.
There will be a funeral, theirs.
The fire behind me cracks once, a slow death rattle in the quiet. No one speaks as the recording fades to silence.
I lean forward, voice low and cold as the grave. “I want them to look into my eyes when they die.”
The silence deepens.
Karpov’s smile is a blade sheathed in something darker. He’s been waiting for this. It’s like the old man is watching his favorite action movie from up close.
Sawyer leans in. “Then we plan a resurrection.”
I turn to Dominik. He’s already writing.
‘‘There’s a meeting. A week from now, in New York. A Bratva council. Only the Vor v Zakone. No outsiders. No backup.’’
I raise a brow. “Where?”
He writes a single word. A name that tastes like ash.
‘‘Brighton Beach.’’
Perfect, I’m going to cut this man open and strap him to a meat hook. Of course there, the first place he devoured.
‘‘I know who they will meet there.’’ I let the silence settle around the room before I add. ‘‘Lorenzo.’’
Before I continue, Karpov opens the folder in his lap, slow as a priest reading his last rites. The paper inside is yellowed and thin, but it hums with power.
“Birth records,” he says, voice low, eyes scanning the shadows outside the cracked window.
“Not just some hospital printout or a name scribbled in ink. I’m talking about a sealed baptismal certificate tied to someone who was never supposed to exist on paper.
The kind of file families like the Gambinos paid to bury—deep. ”
Isabella scrunches her freckles nose anxiously.
“I didn’t get this from an ‘old associate,’” he adds, bitterness curling the corners of his mouth.
“It came from a backroom registry, off-books, candlelit, locked behind three layers of silence. Took a dying archivist and a favor I can’t ever repay.
I knew what to search for, without that no one would know where to look and what to connect. ”
He slides the top page across to Isabella, her name is on the same line.
“You’re his blood.”
She stiffens. Pale. Frozen, like she heard it again for the first time.
“You want to weaponize that?” she asks, barely above a whisper.
“He weaponized you first,” Karpov says. His voice is flat, cold. “This flips the board. Half his men still worship Salvatore’s name. If they see what he did, some will turn their backs. Some will stray from fighting.’’
We all know what this is. A fracture in the myth Lorenzo built around himself. A public betrayal of blood. It’s not just strategy; it’s war through perception.
I watch Isabella. My woman.
I speak, not to the room, but to her. My voice softens just enough.
“We’ll leak it the day before the meeting,” I say. “It’ll be the first strike. A silent one. It’ll shake their loyalty before we even lift a weapon.”
She nods, slow but sure. Fire catching under ice.
“We have seven days,” I say, turning my gaze back to everyone now. “Seven days to prepare a funeral disguised as a council. I don’t want this to be fast. I want it to be flawless.”
I pause and let that settle before I begin assigning their roles.
“Sawyer,” I start, locking eyes with him. “You’ll be in charge of ground operations in Brighton Beach. I know you can do this. I want a map of every blind alley, every rooftop vantage, every sewer grate. We control that terrain like it’s home.”
He nods. “And if it isn’t home by now, I’ll make it one.”
“Dominik has given you our loyal contacts just now in an email. Coordinate with them. Outfit them. Weapons, comms, transport. Position backup on the edges. I don’t want anyone moving without us knowing it.
We’ll provide it all, they’ll know where to get it.
You just have to lead them on. These men think it is Dominik instructing them. ”
“Understood.”
“Karpov.” The old Devil perks up, always eager to wrap up criminals.
“You’ll finalize the document leak. Lorenzo’s bloodline, Isabella’s identity, the forged and hidden past. We spread it strategically. Anonymous drops to certain Bratva lieutenants, old-school mobsters, even FBI assets. Enough to make everyone question who they’re really following.”
His fingers tighten around the folder like it’s sacred. “I’ve already written the headlines.”
“Good,” I say. “Let them choke on truth.”
“Dominik,” I turn next, and I soften, not out of pity, but respect.
“You play the hunted. Make it believable. Let them find your scent. Move erratically. Feed false intel through channels we know they monitor. But when the moment comes, when they land in New York, you vanish. You won’t face them. I will.”
He doesn’t write this time. He simply nods. His mouth is stone, his body carved from silence, but I know he understands the part he’s about to play.
“Ada.” She looks up sharply, expectant.
“You’ll monitor everything and help leak the document. Set up the data architecture. Drones, encrypted comms, and layered backups. We’ll wire the place before the council arrives. I want multiple fail-safes. If they try to cut us off, we own the sky.”
“I’ll give us eyes in the dark,” she says, fingers already poised to code.
“And once the bloodline leak goes live,” I add, “you’ll trigger a timed release to global news servers. They’ll try to suppress it, but the files will be in too many hands. Everyone related to the Gambino family will know what he did.”
She offers a rare smile. “I can make it stick.”
Finally, I turn to the only one who hasn’t spoken much.
Isabella hasn’t flinched once. But I see the lines of tension across her knuckles, the small motion her freckle-stained nose makes.
“I’ll stay behind,” she says quietly, voice measured. “With Ada. I’ll monitor from a distance. It’s safer. Less—”
“No.”
The word cuts the air, final. A gunshot.
She looks up sharply, but I don’t waver. I get up and step closer, slow and sure, until I’m standing right in front of her, between her and the rest of the room. Not to shield her from them, but to speak to her directly, alone in this moment.
“You won’t stay behind,” I say, voice low. Controlled.
Her brows crease. “Aslanov, it’s—”
“You will walk with me,” I interrupt. “At my side. Not behind me. Not beneath me. As my equal. As my woman.”
The room is silent again, but this silence feels different. It belongs to us.
“I don’t need someone watching from a distance,” I continue, softer now. “I need you beside me. Where you’ve always belonged.”
She’s breathing harder now, but she doesn’t look away. Her throat moves as she swallows.
I lean in just enough for only her to hear the next part.
“If anything goes wrong, if the world burns around us, you won’t fall. Not while I’m breathing. I will protect you with everything I am. With my life, if it comes to that.”
I lift my hand and brush her skin with a knuckle. Just a tether.
“Because you are mine, Isabella. And they will know it. Every man in that room. Every eye on that council. They will see it written on your skin, in your fire, in the way I stand beside you, and they will know you’re not a pawn in someone else’s game.
We’ll be two bloodlines as one. You’re the endgame. ”
Her breath stills, just for a second, but she doesn’t look away. Her face flashes red, blood pumping through her veins up her cheeks. Life, let them be full of it.
‘‘You’re my endgame.’’