Page 47 of Tattooed Heart

I study the blueprint, committing it to memory. The layout is simple enough. However, high-end establishments often overlook basic security measures, relying instead on their reputation and exclusive clientele. This is their mistake.

Aleksandr points to the floor plan, his finger tracing the extraction route. “No blood inside the club. We do this with precision. A quiet extraction. You get him out and into the car and we’ll take him to the dungeon. He talks, or he vanishes.”

I nod, understanding the parameters. This isn’t about making noise. It’s about sending a message that will resonate throughout the underworld, a message that will make others think twice.

“If he talks?” I ask, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it confirmed.

“Then we cut deeper,” Aleksandr states, his voice like velvet over steel. “We follow the money. We expose the others. Russo goes next. Then Morozov.”

I lean back in the chair and nod once. “Simple.” And it was. Not easy, but simple. The best plans always are.

Aleksandr's voice sharpens like a blade being honed. “No mistakes. No collateral damage. I want the message to be unmistakable. We are not hiding in the shadows. Morozovwanted a war. Let's show him what happens when you strike at the Avilov Bratva and miss.”

Lev lights the cigarette and blows smoke toward the ceiling. The gray cloud swirls and expands above our heads. “You want him broken?” His question is casual, but the implications are anything but.

Aleksandr looks at me. Our eyes connect, and at that moment, he understands exactly what I want. “I want him to understand that the man he put behind bars walked out stronger,” I hiss.

I feel something shift inside me. Not rage or vengeance. Focus, pure and clarifying that comes from having a purpose larger than oneself.

Aleksandr stands, his fingers gripping the edge of the desk. “Then I'll make sure he understands.”

He slips on his jacket and tucks his cell phone into his pocket. “We move tomorrow,” he declares. “Tonight, you stay with Sandy. Rest and hold what is yours.”

His acknowledgment of Sandy's place in my life is significant. The Bratva is traditional in many ways, often in a brutally direct manner. But Aleksandr doesn’t just tolerate her. He sees her worth not just as his sister-in-law but as a woman who has earned respect in her own right. She isn’t an outsider anymore. She is one of us.

“I already am,” I reply.

Aleksandr claps a hand on my shoulder, firm and brief. His grip is strong, conveying more than words can. “Then tomorrow, you show them why the Popov name still carries fire.”

I feel the truth of his words in my bones. Otets had built this empire with blood and vision. Aleksandr has maintained it with intelligence and ruthlessness. Now it is my turn to prove my worth, to show that prison didn’t extinguish what made me a Popov.

I leave the office without another word. The mission is clear. The enemy is exposed.

The hallway outside is long and lined with paintings of Russian landscapes. I walk past them without really seeing them, my mind already mapping out tomorrow's operation. The extraction, the interrogation, and the necessary aftermath.

My men nod respectfully as I pass. My absence didn’t diminish their loyalty. In fact, it seems to have strengthened it. There is honor among our kind and respect for those who suffer for the sake of family.

I stop by the security room to check in with Ivan. “I need everything you have on the Hawthorne Club. Staff schedules, security rotations, every detail.”

Ivan nods without question. “On your desk within the hour.”

As I walk toward the kitchen, I think about Sandy. She waited and worked tirelessly to prove my innocence, eventually uncovering the threads that led to the revelations of today. She was fierce in her loyalty and brilliant in her strategies.

She is there, sitting by the bay window, laptop open. She looks up as I enter, her eyes searching my face for information. Her gaze lingers on my black hair, a change she is still getting used to. She’s only known me with blonde hair, but she understands what this transformation means to me. This is my battle armor, my declaration of intent.

“It's happening,” I say simply.

She closes the laptop and stands. Her movements are purposeful. “When?”

“Tomorrow. Petrov first.”

She crosses the kitchen and stands before me. There is no fear in her eyes, no hesitation. Only understanding and resolution. “Good. He deserves what's coming.”

I cup her face in my hands, allowing myself to truly look at her for the first time today. The woman who has become my anchor. The woman who has fought her own war while I fought mine behind bars.

“Aleksandr said to rest tonight. To hold what is mine,” I tell her, my voice soft.

She smiles, slow and knowing. “And what is yours, Dimitri Popov?”

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