Page 65 of Tattooed Heart

“That's it,” I say with certainty. The pieces align too perfectly to be a coincidence. “Morozov will choose somewhere with personal significance. Somewhere connected to his brother.”

Aleksandr nods, already activating our team through the security system. “Helicopter is fastest. We can have men there in forty minutes.”

“No,” I say firmly. “Too loud. They'll hear us coming and kill her before we can breach. We drive. Multiple vehicles. Approach from different directions.”

Aleksandr considers this and then agrees. “Four teams. We leave in ten minutes.”

As the room empties and plans set in motion, I stand alone with my thoughts. The rage inside me has crystallized into something cold and focused. Morozov has made his final mistake. He has taken what is mine and threatened my family and my future.

There will benomercy tonight.

I check my weapons methodically: my primary sidearm, backup piece strapped to my ankle, and hunting knife in my boot. The familiar routine centers me and provides clarity amid the storm of emotions.

Lev appears in the doorway, equipped for war. “Cars are ready.”

I nod, securing my tactical vest. “Make sure Elena is secured. If she's lying about anything else, I want to know immediately.”

“Already done. Talia is handling her personally.”

Outside, the convoy is assembled. Four black SUVs, windows tinted, engines idling quietly in the night. Our men move smoothly, loading equipment and checking communications.

Aleksandr approaches, dressed in black tactical gear. “Sandy is family,” he says simply. “We bring her home.”

I clasp his shoulder, a gesture of brotherhood that says everything words can’t. Then I climb into the lead vehicle, Ivan beside me, the driver already plotting the fastest route north.

As we pull away from the estate, I think of Sandy's strength and stubbornness. The way she looks at me makes me feel like she can see past all my defenses to something worth loving.

Morozov doesn’t understand what he unleashed. Sandy is mine to protect. Mine to love. Mine to avenge. And I’m coming for her.

21

SANDY

The cell smells like rust and mildew, and the mattress beneath me is so thin it might as well be a sheet draped over concrete. I sit at its edge, the frame groaning beneath my weight, my hands resting loosely behind my back, carefully positioned to appear bound. The broken spring I used to slice through the zip tie digs into my palm, cold and slick with a faint smear of my blood.

I fight to keep my breathing even, my face impassive. The baby flutters inside me, a tiny reassurance that I’m not alone in this nightmare. I place my free hand protectively over my belly when I’m sure no one is watching through the dirty window in the door.

“We will get out of this,” I whisper to my unborn child. “Your father is coming for us, and I am not going to give up.”

The sound of approaching footsteps makes me quickly resume my position, hands behind my back, shoulders slumped in feigned defeat. The metal door groans open with a shrill squeal, and a man steps into view. He has a thick neck, rotting teeth, and a smile that looks better suited for prison. I recognize him fromearlier. He is one of Morozov's lackeys who enjoys his job too much.

“Morning, princess,” he sneers, unlocking the cell with a slow, deliberate click. “Brought you a little something.”

He holds up a bottle of water like a gift from the gods.

I don’t move. Don’t flinch. Just blink slowly, watching him from beneath lowered lashes. My fingers tighten around the spring, its jagged edge pressing into my skin. I need him closer.

He steps inside and kicks the door closed with the heel of his boot. The sound of it latching sends a spike of adrenaline through me. He drops the bottle on the floor with a loud clack.

“You could say thank you,” he snarls, stepping closer. His eyes roam, lingering too long on my chest. “Or better yet...” His hand reaches out, brushing a lock of hair behind my ear. “You could say thank you some other way.”

His fingers trail down the side of my face. I don’t recoil. I want to. I want to break his fingers one by one. But I force myself to stay still, to play the frightened captive.

“Shouldn't I cut that little tie off your wrists first?” he asks, chuckling. “Or maybe you like it this way.”

He crouches in front of me, hands on his knees, his foul breath wafting over my face as he leans in. “Bet you are real sweet under all that attitude.”

His hand slips down, grazing my thigh, moving higher.

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