Page 24 of Tattooed Heart

“Any word on Dimitri?” he asks.

I exhale slowly, the ache in my chest sharp and familiar. Two weeks without him feels like two years. “Nothing yet. Not anything that can get him out.”

I think of the parade of expensive lawyers, the bribes that went nowhere, and the threatening phone calls that did nothing but put us all on higher alert.

A pause hangs in the air, and then Nick speaks again, his voice steadier now. “It's a shame you can't get Russo to run his mouth. If he admitted even half of what he helped Petrov pull off, you could tear the whole damn case to pieces.”

Something shifts in me. A pulse of heat ignites my gut. I sit up straighter, my free hand moving unconsciously to the table’s edge, gripping it hard enough that my fingers turn red.

“You think he'll talk?” I ask breathlessly, hope and fear tangling in my throat.

“Off the record?” Nick lets out a dry laugh. “Get a couple drinks in him, stroke his ego a little and he won’t just talk, Sandy. He'll brag. He’s the type of guy that loves attention.”

My fingers tighten around the phone.Detective Louis Russo.

I thank Nick and tell him I'll be careful and keep him posted.

But I’m already moving before the call ends. Because I’m not going to stay safe. I’m going to blow this whole thing wide open.

Two hours later, I stand in front of my bathroom mirror, barely recognizing the woman staring back.

A wig of dark auburn waves frames my face, the color rich and vibrant against my skin. My usually subtle makeup is traded for heavy eyeliner and red lipstick, transforming my features into a mask that’s sharper and more calculated. A trench coat over a pencil skirt hugs my figure. It hides my small baby bump, the fabric expensive enough to suggest success without flaunting wealth. Sleek black boots give me the kind of confident click every seductress needs. It’s the sound of a woman who knows exactly where she is going and what she wants when she gets there.

Tonight, I’m someone else entirely. A freelance crime journalist. Hungry, ambitious, and just curious enough to get a man like Russo to underestimate me.

I practice smiling in the mirror. Not my real smile, the one Dimitri says lights up his darkest days. It is a smile designed to make men like Russo think they are in control.

The baby kicks as if protesting this masquerade. I place my hand over the small swell of my stomach.

“I know,” I whisper. “But we're doing this for Daddy. Just a little longer, little one.”

I slip the small voice recorder into my bra, testing it one more time to ensure it works. Then I grab my purse, double-check the fake press credentials I printed, and head out the door.

When I arrive, the precinct parking lot is half-empty. There is a shift change, perfect timing. I wait across the street, watching the main doors.

The rain has given way to mist, turning the streetlights into hazy halos. I check my watch. It’s 7:45pm. Right on schedule, the door opens. Russo struts out, jacket slung over one shoulder, sunglasses on, even though the sun is already dipping low.

Showtime.

“Detective Russo?” I call, adopting a breathy, practiced voice that barely resembles mine. I click across the pavement toward him, my movements smooth. “Sorry to bother you. I'm Angela Dane withMidnight Crime Digest. I've been researching the Popov indictment, and your name came up in some pretty intriguing ways.”

His posture shifts, his chest puffing out the way men do when they think they're smarter than the room. I can practically see him preening under the attention, his ego expanding like a balloon ready to burst.

“You don't say,” he smirks, removing his sunglasses to give me a slow once-over that makes my skin crawl. “You're writing a piece about me?”

I tilt my head, smile coyly, and slowly step close enough to smell his cologne, which is too strong and eager, like everything else about him. “Depends. Do you feel like telling me anything off the record?”

Twenty minutes later, we are tucked into a corner booth at some dive bar that smells like spilled whiskey and regret. This is a place where no one asks questions, and the lighting is too dim to see the lies on anyone's face.Perfect.

The bartender knows him by name and brings his usual without asking. I request a vodka tonic, knowing I won’t drink more than a sip or two. My baby deserves better, and I need my wits sharp as razors tonight.

The small recorder hidden between my breasts is already live, tucked neatly beneath the neckline of my blouse. I nurse my drink, smiling like I’m starstruck, and every word he says is brilliant.

“So, this Popov case,” I prompt, leaning forward just enough to suggest interest beyond the professional. “Word around certain circles is that it wasn't exactly...by the book.” I let the words hang there like bait on a hook.

He is four whiskeys in when the truth starts to bleed out, like poison from a wound too deep to heal clean.

“You know the problem with Petrov?” Russo leans in, his breath thick with alcohol and arrogance. “He thinks too small. Real damage? That takes vision. That's where I came in.”

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