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 awarning.
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 backthe 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.’’
