The name lands between us like a dropped glass. Sawyer lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Karpov? That old bastard still alive?”
Ada smirks, but it’s humorless. “Barely. But he still has connections.”
Ada explains that Viktor Karpov was once a detective, one of the few who understood the delicate, bloodstained threads that wove through New York’s criminal underworld. He worked the Bratva cases for years, got his hands dirty in ways most cops wouldn’t, and then retired before anyone could push him out. He knows things, things that never made it into official reports.
I cross my arms. “You trust him?”
“No,” Ada says. “But he owes me.”
I glance at Sawyer, who just shrugs. “Better than chasing leads that are non-existed.”
Ada doesn’t waste time. She types out a message, her nailsclicking against the keys. The minutes crawl by. Then—
A sharp ping.
Ada checks her screen and smirks. “He’s in.”
A sharp knock at the clinic’s back entrance makes all three of us go still.
Ada moves first, her chair scraping against the tiled floor as she stands. She doesn’t hesitate, just flips the lock and pulls the door open a crack, enough to see but not enough to let anyone through.
The man standing on the other side is bundled in a thick wool coat, its collar turned up against the cold. He’s broad-shouldered, tall but slightly hunched like he’s spent too many years carrying things he shouldn’t. His face is lined, deep grooves cutting across his forehead and around his mouth, and his skin is the ashen shade of someone who lives on bad coffee and worse cigarettes. His sharp blue eyes sweep the clinic, quick and assessing, missing nothing. There’s an exhaustion in his posture, but no hesitation. He’s used to being the one in control.
Ada doesn’t move aside immediately. “You took your time,” she says, her voice dry but not unwelcoming.
The man exhales sharply, stepping inside as if he was always going to, whether she let him or not. “You try digging through decades of dirt and see how fast you move.” His voice is gravelly, like rust scraping against metal.
I glance at Sawyer, who’s watching the exchange with an unreadable expression. I don’t recognize this man, but it’s clear Ada does.
She folds her arms, leaning against the doorframe. “Still breaking kneecaps for information, Karpov?”
The man—Karpov—gives a slow smirk, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not lately.”
Sawyer finally speaks, arms crossed from his spot near the exam table. “Nice to meet you, Karpov.”
The older man grunts in acknowledgment and shifts the weight in his hands; a battered cardboard box, the corners dented and worn soft with age. Without a word, he sets it down on the exam table with a dull thud. The weight of whatever’s inside makes the metal creak slightly.
Ada eyes the box, then him. “What’s this?”
“My retirement plan,” Karpov mutters dryly. Then, more seriously, “It’s everything I have on the Bratva. Names, reports, unofficial records.” His gaze flicks to me for the first time, studying me like he’s deciding how much I’m allowed to know. “If you’re looking for ghosts, you might find one in here.”
Sawyer exhales through his nose, skeptical. “You sure about this, old man? Handing over something like this?”
Karpov’s jaw tightens, his gaze hardening. “Let’s just say I don’t like what’s happening in my city. The Bratva’s being eaten alive from the inside, and nobody’s paying attention. Something is shifting, the crime trends are too.” He looks back at Ada, something unspoken passing between them. “If you want answers, start with what’s in that box.”
Karpov’s gaze shifts from Ada to me, his eyes lingering for a moment longer than necessary. There’s something calculating in the way he studies me, as if weighing my worth in this game of shadows. Then, with a slight nod, he steps toward me and extends his hand.
“I’m Viktor Karpov,” he says, his voice carrying an old-world weight, as if his name still holds some kind of power. “So, you’ve seen the man behind it all up close?”
The words hang in the air, and for a split second, my stomach lurches.
I don’t immediately respond; my thoughts are swirling mix of emotions. How do I answer? How do I explain the pull Aslanov had on me—the strange, magnetic force of a man who ruled with such terrifying power that the mere mention of his name still carries weight? I’d been a part of that world once, one I can never truly escape, no matter how far I try to distance myself from it.
Karpov, sensing the tension, offers Sawyer a dry smile and then turns his attention back to me. His eyes narrow, studying me with a quiet, almost assessing intensity.
“Does he live up to his nickname? The man of the underworld?” he says, his voice rougher now, almost teasing.
The question hangs in the air, and my stomach tightens. I know exactly what Karpov means. The Devil,‘Diable’—that was Aslanov’s nickname, whispered in fearful reverence across the underworld. He had earned it in blood, in violence, and in the cold, calculating way he handled anyone who dared to challenge his power. Or that’s what he wanted everyone to believe.
