Now is not the time, and it might never be.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling for a period of time. I try tofocus on my breathing, to ground myself to earth instead of the Hell inside my head.
After a while, the stillness is broken by the sudden glow of my phone screen. The light cuts through the dim room, casting shifting shadows against the walls. I blink, dragging myself out of the haze of my thoughts and glance down.
An unknown number.
At first, I don’t react. Spam, probably. A telemarketer. Some automated message trying to pull me into a scam. But then my eyes catch on the country code, and all the air in my lungs seems to vanish at once.
+7
Russia.
My fingers tighten around the phone. My body reacts before my mind catches up, sitting up too fast, the ceramic pitcher slipping from my stomach and onto the carpet. The warmth it had given me is gone now, replaced by something cold curling at the base of my spine. I swallow hard, my heart hammering against my ribs as I unlock the screen.
The message is short. Precise. But it hits like a gunshot.
Dominik is flying into New York for a meeting.
Below that, an address:
The Astoria Grand, 768 Park Avenue.
Thursday, 8 PM.
At the bottom of the message, a name.
-Sasha.
Chapter 43
A Sinister Truth
and a Lover’s Vow
Aslanov
The door creaks open. The sudden intrusion of light is a vicious, unmerciful thing, slicing through the pitch black with a force that makes my eyes snap shut. My pulse thuds sluggishly in my veins, my body exhausted from deprivation. I don’t move. Not until I hear the sound.
A plate scraping against the concrete floor.
The scent hits me first; rice, vegetables, real food. Not the half-rotten scraps they’ve been tossing me like I’m some mongrel left to die in a gutter. My fingers twitch, dignity warring with desperation. But it’s already gone. My pride, my composure, it was stripped from me long before this moment.
Like a starving animal, I lunge forward, the chains rattling as I seize the plate and bring it to my lips. I barely taste it. The food vanishes in rapid, clumsy bites, my throat working furiously to swallow. Each grain of rice, each piece of vegetable is a mockery, a silent taunt—Look at you now, Aslanov.
A chuckle drifts from the doorway. Slow, amused.
‘‘Oh, how the mighty fall,’’ he muses, stepping inside. The heavy door groans as it shuts behind him, locking us in. He moves with the kind of confidence that only comes from knowing he’s already won.
A sharp click.
The projector hums to life, and my entire world explodes into blinding light. I recoil, squeezing my eyes shut against the assault. The brightness sears through my lids, white-hot agony in my skull. When I finally force my gaze open, blinking through the haze, the screen is there, large, inescapable, a window into my own destruction.
‘‘I thought you’d like to see what’s been happening in your absence,’’ Nick says, his voice dripping with mock sincerity. ‘‘After all, it’s only fair you witness the legacy you so painstakingly built—crumbling to dust.’’
The image sharpens.
New York City.
