Page 23 of Tattooed Heart

Talia enters the kitchen, her footsteps faltering when she notices the tension. She crosses to the table, her face still soft from motherhood but quickly hardening as she leans over the images.

She stares down at them, her breath catching in her throat. “What is this?” she asks, her voice cracking like dry ice.

“Proof,” I whisper. “Or at least the start of it.” The words sour on my tongue, tangled with triumph and fear. I did something dangerous that I can’t take back.

Lev leans forward, picks up one of the photos, and turns it over as if the back might hold the answers. His eyebrows snap together, and his silence says more than words. I recognize the calculation in his eyes, the slow, methodical assessment of a new piece on the chessboard. Aleksandr might be thepakhanof the Avilov family, but Lev is the shadow who makes problems disappear before they reach thepakhan'sdesk.

Talia's eyes dart between the images and my face. “Where the hell did you get these?” she blurts out. Her lips are in a tight, pale line, her knuckles white where she’s gripping the table's edge. The protective fury of a sister is warring with the fear I know shecarries daily and the knowledge that our lives are balanced on a knife's edge.

“I took them,” I answer quietly, the truth spilling from my lips before I can take it back. “A few nights ago.” I can’t bring myself to elaborate, to describe the cold car seat, how my muscles ached from crouching, or the spike of adrenaline when Kiril's gaze seemed to find me in the darkness.

Her hands shoot out, gripping my shoulders hard enough to sting. I can feel the tremor in her fingers. Her eyes blaze with frantic worry.

“Are you out of your mind? You can't be out there chasing Morozov's men like you're some kind of?—”

“I did what I had to do,” I snap, lifting my chin. “No one else was going to.” The baby flutters inside me, a small reminder of what I’m fighting for. I place a protective hand over my stomach, feeling the gentle curve that has become my anchor.

“You're pregnant!” she shouts, flinging her arms into the air. Her voice echoes against the high ceilings, startling a maid who appeared in the doorway only to retreat quickly. “And in case you forgot, these people aren’t just scary. They’ll kill you and dump your body in a shallow grave like garbage! What happens if you get caught, huh? What happens to the baby?”

Her words strike like lightning, fierce and undeniable. I know what men like Morozov and Kiril do to those who cross them. But fear has become a weakness I can’t entertain.

“I know the risk!” My voice rises, desperation finally slipping through the careful composure I have tried to maintain since Dimitri’s arrest. “But I'm not going to sit on my hands whileDimitri rots in a prison cell for something he didn't do. Or worse, he dies in there!”

The baby kicks again, this time stronger, as if sensing my distress. I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart.

The kitchen falls into a thick silence while Talia's anger fills the room. Outside, the rain intensifies, drumming against the windows with renewed force.

Lev clears his throat, stepping in like the calm between two storms. “I'll look into it,” he says, his tone steady but threaded with quiet urgency. His eyes don’t leave the photos, calculating distances, angles, and implications. “I've got a contact at City Records. If there's any trail, financial, digital, or even a sudden change in Kiril's phone activity, we'll track it.”

I nod, my heart still hammering against my ribs. Lev's quiet intensity is somehow more reassuring than any loud promises can be. He doesn’t waste words. When he says he’ll look into something, bodies move, money changes hands, and results follow.

“You can't keep doing this,” Talia whispers, pressing her fingers to her forehead like she can rub away the worry. “I won't let you put yourself in danger like this.”

“I don't have a choice,” I hiss, the words harsher than I mean them to be. “If there's even a chance this helps bring Dimitri home sooner, then I have to keep digging. I won't stop.”

My hand curls protectively over my belly again. This child deserves to know their father, to be held in Dimitri's strong arms, and to grow up with his fierce love protecting them. I won’t accept any other outcome.

Talia stares at me, recognizing the fight in my voice and sensing the fear behind it. She sees my resolve. Her expression softens slightly, as always, when she realizes arguing is pointless. She knows my stubborn streak better than anyone.

“You're my sister,” she sighs. “And I know that look. Once your mind's made up, there's no changing it. But for your sake, and for that baby, promise me you'll be careful. You're playing with fire, and fire doesn't care how noble you are.”

She doesn’t wait for an answer, turning on her heels and following Lev out of the kitchen. I stand there momentarily, her concern wrapping around my neck like a noose.

The grandfather clock in the hall chimes nine times, its deep resonance filling the empty kitchen. Time passes, and each second ticking away is another second Dimitri spends behind bars, surrounded by enemies with a target on his back.

I lower myself into a chair, suddenly exhausted. My fingers brush over the photos again, tracing the outlines of the men who think they can take everything from me.

A moment later, my phone buzzes in my pocket from an unknown number.

I stare at the screen, nerves twisting low in my stomach. In this world, unknown numbers rarely bring good news. They mean emergency drop phones, burners used once and discarded, and voices that need to stay unattached to names. But something in my gut tells me to answer.

“Hello?”

“Sandy.” Nick's voice comes through the line, low and cautious. “How are you holding up?”

I sink deeper into the chair, tugging my hoodie sleeves over my hands like makeshift armor. His familiar voice, with its distinctive timbre, is comforting and cautionary.

“As well as I can, all things considered.” I keep my voice neutral, aware that even here, in the fortress of the Avilov estate, walls have ears.

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