Page 17 of Tattooed Heart

“Connections that haven't done a damn thing!”The words had exploded out of me, weeks of pent-up frustration cracking through the surface. “Connections that keep saying ‘wait’ and ‘patience’ while Dimitri is in a cell with men who'd kill him for a pack of cigarettes!”

Talia flinched, but her eyes remained steady.“You think I don't know that?”

Shame washed over me. Of course, she did. Of course, she was suffering too. I rubbed my temples, trying to massage away the constant headache that had taken up residence since Dimitri's arrest.

“I'm sorry,”I murmured.“I just feel so helpless.”

“We all do.”She squeezed my shoulder.“But running headfirst into danger won't bring him home any faster.”

Maybe she was right. But the thought of Dimitri bleeding out behind bars while I sit on my hands makes my skin crawl.

So, I won’t stop. Not when Petrov is still breathing. Not when I know deep down that he is the key to all this.

After dinner, I wait until the house grows quiet. Talia retired early with a migraine. The kids are fast asleep. Aleksandr is on a call with his contacts in Moscow. The security team is changing shifts. That brief ten-minute window where attention wavers just slightly is enough for me to slip away.

I change into black leggings and a black sweater, practical clothes that won’t draw attention. The guard at the gate barely glances at me as I drive past in one of the less conspicuous sedans from the garage. I’m not the pregnant girlfriend of his imprisoned boss, just another staff member heading out for the evening. I timed it perfectly to coincide with the shift change and kitchen deliveries.

That's how I ended up parked two blocks from Petrov’s office on a Tuesday night, with the engine off, lights dimmed, and a camera clutched in my hands.

The Upper East Side is quieter after nine. There are fewer cars, fewer distractions, just the occasional cab rolling by, and the buzz of distant neon signs. Petrov's building sits like a monument to arrogance. Stone and glass, pristine and smug. I watch the front doors like a hawk, my heart thudding with every passing second.

My back aches from sitting in one position for too long. I shift, trying to find comfort that refuses to come. The baby seems restless tonight, too, putting constant pressure against my bladder that I stubbornly ignore. This is too important to be interrupted by bathroom breaks or discomfort.

I pull out my phone to check for messages. Nothing from Lev. Nothing from Aleksandr. I only received a text from Talia asking if I wanted chamomile tea before bed. Guilt twists through me. She thinks I’m upstairs, resting. She'll check eventually and find my room empty. Another betrayal to add to the growing list.

A couple walks past my car, arm in arm, laughing about something trivial. I sink lower in my seat, absurdly jealous of their normal lives and ordinary problems. What I wouldn't giveto have my biggest worry be which restaurant to try for dinner or which movie to stream on a weeknight.

The digital clock on the dashboard ticks over to 9:30pm.

Talia would kill me if she knew I was here alone. But I’m doing this for Dimitri and our baby.

The sound of the building's revolving door spinning pulls me from my thoughts. I straighten, camera ready.

At 9:37pm, the bastard finally emerges. With slick hair, a tailored coat, and a face like a wax figure carved out of contempt, Benjamin Petrov looks both ways and slides into the back of a black sedan that pulls up to the curb like clockwork.

I memorized his face from the photographs in Lev’s files. Petrov has been on Morozov's payroll for years. He is the man who makes problems disappear with a signature and a hefty fee. The man who fabricated the evidence that put Dimitri behind bars.

“He's a snake,”Lev had told me.“The kind that slithers into your life so quietly you don't notice until you're already poisoned.”

I wait a second, then two, before twisting my keys in the ignition and easing into traffic.

Following someone through the city takes skill. Too close, and they'll notice. Too far, and you'll lose them at a light. I watch enough crime dramas to know the basics, but theory and practice are different beasts. My palms sweat against the steering wheel as I keep three cars between us, my heart hammering every time I think I lost them.

A horn blares as I cut off a taxi to make a yellow light. The driver shouts something obscene, but I keep my eyes forward. I can't afford to lose Petrov now.

They don’t go far. Just ten blocks downtown to a private lot tucked behind an upscale steakhouse and a cigar bar. I park across the street, half-shielded by a delivery truck, and kill the lights again.

The restaurant glows with warm light. I can see silhouettes of the wealthy at play through gaps between the curtains. Champagne toasts and business deals are sealed over rare steaks and expensive bourbon.

Petrov steps out, lights a cigarette, and leans against the car like he has all the time in the world. Two minutes later, another car pulls in.

Isaak Kiril.

My pulse spikes the moment I see him. I recognize his face from one of the files in Petrov's office. Lev warned us about him. Kiril isn’t just some thug. He’s Morozov's cleaner. The guy you call when you want a body gone and no trace left behind.

He and Petrov shake hands. They laugh, the sound of it making my skin crawl like a death sentence sealed with a smile.

I raise my camera, zoom in, and snap a photo. Then another. And another.

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