Ada watches me carefully. “You don’t have to do this.”
We both know that’s a lie.
I lift my chin. “Yes. I do.”
Sawyer swears under his breath and shoves off the wall, pacingagain. “This is a bad idea.”
“Do you have a better one?” I snap.
He stops pacing, turns to me, jaw tight. “Yeah. How about we don’t hand you over to a Bratva operative like a fucking offering?”
“That’s not what this is,” I say, even though I don’t even know what this is anymore.
He gives me a sharp look. “Feels like it.”
I close my eyes for a second, forcing myself to steady. The air feels heavier now, the weight of the choice pressing down. But the answer isn’t a choice at all. It never was.
I exhale sharply. “This isn’t about what any of us think. Tsepov set the terms. We either play his game or we walk away empty-handed.”
He swears again, dragging a hand down his face, then finally nods.
It’s settled.
I’m going to see Roman Tsepov.
Chapter 29
Tear Me Asunder
Aslanov
The room is the same. The cold, unyielding metal of the chair beneath me. The dull hum of the overhead light flickering in rhythmic intervals. The faint scent of blood, mine, mostly, mingling with the lingering trace of my darkened mind.
And Nick.
He stands in front of me, sleeves rolled up, the faint imprint of bruised knuckles still fresh on his skin. His posture is relaxed, too casual, like a man who has already won the fight before throwing the first punch.
I am going to kill him.
The silence between us stretches, taut with expectation. I keep my breathing slow, controlled. Every muscle in my body protests against the lingering effects of the last session, cracked ribs, torn skin, the faint remnants of the drug still dulling the edges of my mind.
My chest stings. The tattoo, bold, black lines once crisp and unyielding. has begun to flake. The skin beneath it is raw, irritated, as if struggling to heal but never quite allowed the chance. Scabs form along the edges where the ink has cracked, tiny flecks peeling away like the shedding of old skin.
Nick sighs and steps closer, his boots echoing against the concrete floor. He doesn’t speak right away. He lets the weight of his presence settle first, lets the tension curl between us like apredator toying with its prey.
Then, finally—
“You should’ve given me more.”
His voice is calm. Almost disappointed.
I smirk, slow and deliberate. “Sounds like you got plenty.”
Nick’s jaw tenses, but he doesn’t react beyond that. Instead, he pulls something from his pocket. A small, worn notebook. He flips it open, thumb skimming the pages before he reads aloud:
“Dimitri Vasiliev. Enforcer for the Odessa group. Picked him up outside a club in Brighton Beach two nights ago. Sang like a fucking canary.” His gaze lifts to mine. “Vladimir Kovach. Mid-level operator, moving product through New Jersey. Gave me a list of names.” He takes a step closer, his voice lowering. “Then there’s Yegor Sokolov. Accountant. Been handling Bratva money for years. Guess where he is now?”
I say nothing.
