Page 22 of Tattooed Heart

He swipes a keycard, and the door slides open silently. Inside is the elevator, barely big enough for all of us. The descent is short. The machinery hums with age but works smoothly enough.

“Three of Mr. Avilov’s men are on rotation tonight,” the guard explains as we drop deeper into the building's bowels. “Another five got transferred in last week. He's been planning this since they moved you to gen pop."

My jaw tightens. “He knew about the transfer before it happened?”

“He had someone in administration tip him off.” The elevator doors open to a cavernous room filled with industrial washing machines and dryers, the air thick with the smell of bleach and detergent. “This way.”

We drag our unconscious cargo through the empty laundry facility. The night shift isn’t due for another hour. The guard moves with the confidence of someone who has memorized every detail.

A plain white van idles at the loading dock, its engine a quiet rumble in the night. As we approach, the back doors swing open, revealing two men in maintenance coveralls. I recognize neither, but they carry themselves with the unmistakable poise of Bratva soldiers.

We load the unconscious bodies into van-like packages. No words are exchanged. This is business, clean, and efficient.

When the doors close and the van pulls away, I turn to the guard. “Now what?”

“Now you go back to your cell,” he says, checking his watch again. “And I escort you there like nothing happened.”

“And them?” I nod toward the van, which is now disappearing into the night.

A cold smile touches his lips. “They'll wake up somewhere very unpleasant. Somewhere Morozov can find them and understand the message.”

I know what that means. They won’t die immediately. Death will be a mercy compared to what waits for them. A message written in pain and blood that even Morozov can’t misinterpret: touch what's mine, and I'll take what's yours.

Aleksandr has always been ruthless in his vengeance.

“The story will be that Jacobs, the kid, got transferred to a different security detail,” the guard continues as we return to the main building. “Happens all the time. No one will question it.”

We walk in silence through the now-empty corridors. Nighttime prison has a different quality. The darkness is deeper, and the silence more absolute, broken only by the occasional moan or rustling from behind cell doors.

“How much longer?” I ask quietly as we approach my block.

He knows I’m asking how long it will take me to be free of this place, not how long it will take us to reach my cell.

“Soon,” his voice is low and confident.

We reach my cell. The door stands open, waiting. Inside is the same concrete box that has been my home for weeks. But now it feels different. Temporary. A way station rather than a tomb.

The guard uncuffs me. His movements are professional enough to avoid scrutiny.

I enter my cell, the door closing behind me with the usual metallic clang. But this time, it doesn’t sound like defeat. It sounds like a countdown.

I sit on the edge of my bed, hands on my knees, and breathe deeply.

8

SANDY

I wait until Talia finishes feeding Angelina dinner and leaves to hand her off to Nanny Olga before I pull out the folder, the edges slightly bent from how tightly I've been holding it. My fingers trace the worn corners, evidence of my anxiety and the physical manifestation of hope and desperation bound in manila.

Outside, rain taps against the windows, a quiet percussion to match my racing heartbeat. The estate seems too peaceful for the storm I’m about to unleash.

Lev sits at the kitchen table, hunched over his laptop, his eyes narrowed like he can smell trouble brewing. His massive frame dwarfs the ornate chair, his muscles tense beneath his expensive button-down. He doesn’t glance up, but I know he feels the shift in the room the second I step closer. Years of surviving the Bratva have given him a sixth sense for approaching danger.

I say nothing. I just place the photos on the table, one by one, like cards in a game none of us want to play. Each image makes a soft whisper as it meets the polished wood surface.

Benjamin Petrov. Captured in grainy black-and-white, slipping a sleek black envelope into Isaak Kiril's greedy hands like it meant nothing. Like he wasn't selling Dimitri's life for whatever backroom favors were scribbled in blood and signed in silence. The fluorescent lighting of the parking lot highlighted the casual cruelty in their expressions. Men conducting business and trading lives like commodities.

I watch Lev's face as he registers what he’s seeing. The slight tightening around his eyes and the almost imperceptible clench of his jaw are small signs that speak volumes.

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