Page 3 of Tattooed Heart

Another pause. I can almost hear him weighing his options. Jensen isn't on anyone's payroll, as far as I know. He’s just a man doing a job. But here, everyone has a price.

Finally, the door opens. Jensen stands there, nightstick at his belt, eyes unreadable.

“Make it quick,” he says, leading me down the corridor to the phones.

The receiver is cold against my ear. I dial the number to one of our secure lines. It rings three times, then clicks.

“Da?” Yuri’s gruff voice answers.

“Morozov made his move today.”

“Understood.” Nothing else needs to be said. The message will reach Aleksandr in a matter of minutes.

Jensen escorts me back to my cell without a word. The door closes behind me like a coffin lid, but I'm not dead yet, not even close.

My knuckles are bruised. My cheek is stitched. My ribs feel like they were kicked by a mule. But all I can think about is Sandy. A glimmer of light in a life spent too long in the dark.

Night falls, and the lights dim but never fully go out. They’re always watching, always waiting. I lie on the cot, one arm behind my head, staring at nothing. Sleep won't come. Just fragments of rest between moments of vigilance.

The wordfamilyhaunts me in the darkness. The Bratva has always been my only family. Brothers forged in blood, bound by oath, and tempered in violence. It is the life I chose when I pledged myself to Otets and later swore unwavering loyalty to Aleksandr. I became more than his half-brother and second-in-command. I became his shadow, his weapon.

But Sandy changed everything. She showed me another kind of loyalty.

I close my eyes, and her face sharpens in my mind. I picture the curve of her smile, the stubborn set of her jaw when she’s angry, and how she looks at me like I’m worth saving.

Am I?I've never been sure. But I have to try for her and for our child.

A sound at the door pulls me from my thoughts. The small slot slides open, and a food tray appears, but I don't move. Poison isan old friend of the Bratva. One I've used myself on more than one occasion.

But hunger always wins in the end. I check the tray, inspecting every inch before I take a bite. Tasteless sludge masquerading as dinner, but I choke it down. I’ll need my strength.

While Aleksandr works the outside—lawyers, bribes, pressure in all the right places—I’m trapped here, alone. And Morozov’s reach? It stretches farther than the bars around me. The attacker today was just the beginning. A test. The real threats will come soon enough.

I need allies and information. A way to defend myself without ending up in deeper trouble.

My thoughts are interrupted by footsteps approaching my cell. They’re heavy and deliberate. Not the usual guard patrol.

The door swings open, and two guards step in. Their uniforms are spotless, movements routine, but there’s something off. Their eyes give it away. Cold and calculating.

“Popov,” one says. “Special interrogation. Now.”

I stand slowly, my muscles tensed. There is no scheduled interrogation. This is it. Morozov's next move.

“Where's Jensen?” I ask, buying time and assessing options.

“Shift change,” the other guard replies quickly. His hand rests on his belt, near his baton.

I could fight. Take them both. But then what? I'd never make it out of the building. And Sandy would never forgive me if I got myself killed trying to be a hero.

So, I nod and let them think I'm compliant. I let them lead me down the corridor, away from the cells, toward a section of the prison I hadn’t seen before.

My mind races, mapping exits, counting cameras, noting blind spots. The Bratva trained me well.

We round a corner into a silent hallway. It’s empty, exposed, and stripped of cameras. A dead zone on purpose.

I make my move. I drop low, sweeping the legs out from under the guard on my right, sending him crashing to the floor. Before the second can react, I drive my elbow into his throat, cutting off his shout mid-breath. He stumbles back, gasping for air. I rip the baton from his grip and swing it in a tight arc, catching him across the temple. He goes down hard.

The first guard scrambles for his radio, but I stomp on his hand. Bone crunches beneath my boot, and he howls in pain. One more blow to the head silences him. Not fatal. Just enough to make sure he stays down while I move.

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