I cover my mouth, my breath short. Because this man? This isn’t my Aslanov, this is the most prominent crime boss of the underworld, of the Bratva.
He crouches again in front of Lazovsky, slow, unhurried, almost tender. Like this is a conversation over dinner instead of one surrounded by corpses and blood-slicked tile. His hand doesn’t shake. His eyes don’t narrow. There’s no satisfaction in his face.
The pliers hang loosely in one hand, red-stained and patient.
“Who was involved?” he asks, voice low, almost gentle. “And why?”
Lazovsky’s head jerks once, then again, as if he’s trying to shake something out of his skull. His lips tremble. Blood spills down his chin when he opens his mouth.
He doesn’t answer.
Aslanov tilts his head.
“You have maybe ten seconds before I start on your ribs.”
Lazovsky lets out a sharp, wet breath.
Then finally, he cracks.
“It was… it was us. Zakharov. Yegorov. Me. And more. Others were listening, waiting to see if it worked. We met three times in private, no records, no guards, no younger men. Lorenzo said you were finished. Dead. That Dominik was unfit. That it was time to Westernize. Cut the old blood out.”
Aslanov nods once, as if that confirms something he already knew.
Then:
“And why you?”
“Why didyoubetray me?”
The question stills the room.
Lazovsky doesn’t look at him. His eyes dart, around the corpses, around the faces still alive.
Then finally, his head lifts, barely.
“Because I was tired of being afraid of you.”
Silence, Aslanov just stares at him for a beat, unblinking.
Then he slowly stands. Straightens his spine. Wipes blood from the pliers onto Lazovsky’s shoulder.
His voice drops to a level I feel in my chest.
“Good.”
“You should’ve stayed that way.”
He raises the gun, but then he doesn’t fire.
He turns.
And now he faces the rest of the table.
The remaining Vor v Zakone.
The ones still alive.
He steps slowly to the center again, boots echoing over blood and bone.
