Page 21 of Tattooed Heart

“Move it, Popov.”

That is all I need. I shove him hard, his body just slightly off-balance from the push.

I spin, my hands still cuffed, but my body is as fluid as mercury. The momentum of his own shove becomes his downfall as my shoulder drives into his sternum with brutal force. Air rushes from his lungs in a strangled gasp. Before he can recover, my knee finds his groin with surgical precision.

He folds like wet paper.

The second guard reaches for his baton, but he is too slow. I’m already moving, bringing my cuffed hands down hard on the back of his neck. The blow isn’t enough to knock him unconscious, but it stuns him and sends him stumbling forward into the wall.

That left the civilian. He isn’t like the others. He moves with the fluid grace of a fighter, sidestepping my first attack with ease. His fist connects with my ribs. It is a sharp, professional blow that would have dropped a lesser man.

Pain blossoms, hot and familiar. I embrace it. Use it. Let it fuel the cold rage I've been banking for days.

“Morozov send his best now?” I taunt, circling him despite the disadvantage of the handcuffs.

His smile never wavers. “Just his most efficient.”

He comes at me fast with a flurry of blows designed to overwhelm me. I block what I can and absorb what I can’t. I wait for the opening, and I know it will come.

Everyone has a pattern. Everyone has a tell. He slightly drops his left shoulder before he throws his right. When it comes, I’m ready.

I duck under his swing and drive my forehead into the bridge of his nose with a sickening crunch. Blood sprays. He staggers back, eyes watering. I press forward, ready to finish what I started.

Then everything changes.

A dull thud echoes in the corridor. The civilian's eyes widen in shock, then roll back as he collapses to the ground like a marionette with cut strings.

Behind him stands the older second guard, wielding his baton with practiced precision. His expression is neutral and professional, but his eyes are sharp as they meet mine.

“We don't have much time,” he says in low, accented Russian.

I freeze, ready to attack or defend. “Who are you?”

“Someone who gets paid better by Mr. Avilov than by the prison system.” He moves to the younger guard, who is still dazed on the floor, delivering another precise blow that renders him unconscious. “Your brother sends his regards.”

Relief surges through me like a riptide, but I keep my face blank.

“Show me,” I say, my voice cold and edged with suspicion.

He moves slowly, reaching into his pocket. No sudden gestures. No twitch of betrayal. Then he pulls out a small, solid object that gleams in the light.

A ring. But not just any ring. The one etched with the Avilov family crest worn by enforcers and men who have killed in Aleksandr’s name and bled for our Bratva.

“He said you’d need proof,” the guard mutters before tossing it to me.

It lands in my palm with a heavy thud, solid and unmistakable. My fingers close around it, the ridges pressing into my skin with a familiarity that silences the doubt. It’s real. And that changes everything.

My shoulders ease fractionally. “What's the plan?”

“Morozov paid this piece of shit”—he nudges the civilian with his boot—“to make sure you had an accident tonight. The permanent kind. Mr. Avilov got word three days ago. Managed to get a few of us on his payroll.” He glances at his watch. “We have four minutes before the next patrol comes through.”

I nod, my mind already shifting gears. “What now?”

“Now we make these two disappear.” He moves to the younger guard, grabbing him under the arms. “Take the other one. There's a service elevator at the end of this hall. Leads to the laundry facilities. Transport van's waiting.”

I don’t waste time with questions. I seize the civilian, hauling his dead weight up and over my shoulder in a fireman's carry. The injury to my ribs protests, sharp pain lancing through my side, but I ignore it.

We move quickly down the corridor. The guard leads with confidence, telling me he mapped this route carefully. The service elevator is tucked behind an unmarked door that blends into the institutional walls until you know exactly what you are looking for.

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