They begin to move, chairs screeching, hands raising, voices breaking into panic.
Red dots multiply.
Ada’s signal hits.
All of them, marked.
Malik’s voice cuts through the shattering panic.
“You move, you die.”
I smile.
“Phones won’t work. Doors won’t open. You’re sealed in a tomb you built yourselves.”
One of the Americans pisses himself. The smell hits the air like proof.
I breathe it in.
It smells like victory.
Lorenzo clutches his ruined hand, eyes wide and wet.
I crouch down to meet him eye-level.
“Now you understand,” I whisper, “why you should’ve murdered me when you had the chance.”
Chapter 75
Welcome to the
Slaughterhouse
Isabella
It’s been over an hour since the first shots rang out. The Vor v Zakone, those who once sat like kings around the table, now hang like failed prayers. Some lie broken on the floor, holes where eyes used to be. Others have had parts removed. Others, worse.
And in the center of it all is him.
Not Aslanov.
Not the man who kissed me and cried in front of my eyes, held me, and loves me.
Diable.
That’s who he is now.
He walks through the aftermath with boots streaked in blood, sleeves rolled, arms exposed, tattoos slick and stained. His eyes aren’t angry, they’re empty. And that’s what makes it worse.
This isn’t rage.
This is discipline.
He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t lose control. He commands the room like he’s death in human form, cold, logical,inevitable.
I stand against the wall, untouched but not unmoved.
I can’t look away, I can’t escape this scene, this place. Even when I want to.
