Page 14 of Tattooed Heart

My jaw tightens, the muscle ticking beneath my skin like a detonator waiting for its cue. I don’t blink or show a single trace of the rage building inside me at Morozov's name. That bastard thinks he can reach me anywhere, even here, surrounded by guards, concrete, and security cameras.

“I've been inside a long time, Popov,” he adds, his eyes like slits of flint. “I know a setup when I see one. He wants you dead and he's getting impatient.”

“You're ex-Spetsnaz,” I say at last.

A faint smirk ghosts across his lips. “Mikhail.”

I lean in slightly, my voice dropping to something quieter, deadlier. “So, tell me, soldier…why the warning? You could’ve kept your distance. Let me bleed out like just another name on the list.”

He cocks his head, those sharp gray eyes sweeping the mess hall with lethal precision like a sniper marking threats before pulling the trigger.

“Because I don’t respect cowards,” he replies, his tone flat. “And Morozov? He’s the worst kind. Sends lapdogs to do the work his hands are too soft for.”

I watch him carefully. “And you’re not one of them?”

His gaze slides back to mine, unwavering. “I belong to no one.”

I study him. Every line of his face tells a story of battles fought and lost, of loyalty misplaced and trust shattered. He is a man with nothing left to lose, but he still hasn’t quit fighting. Those are the most dangerous kind. The kind I respect.

“You've got eyes in here?” I ask.

He nods once, a barely perceptible movement.

“I need them.”

“I figured.” He taps his fingers against the table once, then stands. “For now, we watch each other's backs. That's it. Don't expect me to take a shiv for you.”

“I don't expect anything I wouldn't do myself.”

His gaze flicks over me again, a soldier's appraisal of another soldier. There is no handshake, no dramatic oath. Just a silent understanding between two men who recognize the same darkness in each other. The kind of alliance we just made doesn’t need ink or blood. It lives in the space between understanding and necessity.

My hand drops to my thigh, where the old ache still lives like a ghost beneath the skin. The stab wound I took for Aleksandrall those years ago in Rio de Janeiro, the night everything went sideways. A blood-soaked alley, a betrayal we never saw coming, and a choice made in seconds to protect my brother, protect thepakhan.

Danil is still in the hole, locked down and silenced. They know what they are doing, cutting the muscle from the bone and separating us like wolves pulled from the pack. Break the bond, weaken the defense, and leave me exposed for the kill.

But they missed something vital. I’m not alone anymore. Not really.

Sandy's face floats through my mind. Her fierce eyes and that stubborn mouth. The way she looked at me before I was dragged out in cuffs like she already knew she'd burn the world down to get me back. The woman who'd stumbled into my life and refuses to be intimidated by the blood on my hands or the price on my head. The one who sees past the monster to the man beneath.

And the baby.

God help me. I can’t even picture its face yet, but I feel it like a heartbeat under my skin. A tether anchoring me to something pure and still worth bleeding for. My child. My legacy. A part of me and Sandy that will live beyond this bloodshed.

Otets used to say men like us don’t get happy endings. We live by the sword, and if we’re lucky, we die by it too. No illusions. No peace. Just the mark of blood and the code etched into our bones.

But Sandy’s pregnancy shifted something in me. It broke open the part I’d buried under years of violence and vengeance. It isn’t about the Bratva anymore. It isn’t about legacy, power, orretribution. It’s about them. Sandy and the life growing inside her. The future I never let myself want.

And I sure as hell aren’t going to die in a concrete tomb for Morozov’s twisted idea of justice. I have a war to win. And I’ll fight it tooth and nail, broken rib by shattered knuckle, until I claw my way out of this goddamn cage and back to them.

Mikhail slips back into the chaos like smoke on a battlefield, silent and unseen but ready to strike.

I stay put, my hands flat on the cold metal table, my body still and mind sharper than ever. Calm and controlled. In rooms like this, the real predators don’t fidget. They wait.

The mess hall comes alive around me again. The scrape of plastic trays, the clang of metal spoons, and the low grunt of laughter from men who long since stopped caring about being heard. But I know better. That noise isn’t comfortable. It’s camouflage. And the lull? It’s just the calm before the blade.

Something is coming. I can feel it like static in my blood. It's the same instinct that has kept me alive through a dozen wars and twice as many assassination attempts. The sixth sense that all predators develop when they've been hunted long enough.

Two tables over, a fight breaks out. Fast and loud. It was the kind of brawl that didn’t happen without permission.

---