Page 31 of Tattooed Heart

He lingers a fraction longer, testing me and looking for a weakness. Or maybe he’s just bored and hungry for the wrong kind of attention. His eyes sweep over the cell, but they don’t dwell on the few possessions that mark my existence.

Eventually, a guard passes, keys jingling at his belt like some twisted wind chime, and the kid peels himself off the wall. He slips away down the corridor without a backward glance.

But the message is clear. They’re circling again. And this time, they are younger, hungrier, and less concerned with the consequences of spilling Avilov blood.

I exhale slowly, unclenching fists I didn’t realize I made. My knuckles ache with phantom pain from fights I didn’t yet fight but know are coming. Time works differently in prison. Threatsdon’t always materialize immediately. Sometimes, they hang in the air for days or weeks before the blade finally makes contact with skin. Patience is a weapon, as much as shanks fashioned from toothbrushes and bedsprings.

I stand, rolling my shoulders to ease the tension coiled there. My cell feels smaller each day. The walls seem to breathe and edge closer while I sleep. I pace five steps to cross from the bunk to the bars, then back again.

Five steps. Turn. Five steps. Turn. Like a caged animal. Like a man running out of time.

I think of Sandy the last time she visited. Her voice was strained but determined. Her eyes were fierce, loving, and scared all at once. And the child we share, growing inside her, is a miracle amid this nightmare.

My child.

The thought strengthens yet terrifies me. What kind of father will I be if I survive this? What kind of world am I bringing a child into? One where their father is either a convicted murderer or a target with a price on his head?

I don’t allow myself to think of not making it out. Of Sandy raising our baby alone and never holding my child or seeing their first steps. Never hearing them call me Papa.

The fluorescent lights pulse overhead, stretching sickly shadows across the floor. In the cell block, someone is shouting. Their words are muffled by distance, but their tone is unmistakable. Rage and desperation, the sound of a man coming undone.

I stay on my feet long after lights out, one hand resting near the edge of the steel sink, the other curled loosely at my side.Ready. The darkness in prison is never complete. There's always light bleeding in from somewhere, enough to see shapes and movement. Sufficient to defend yourself if you stay vigilant. Sleep can wait.

The days blur together. I wake. I exercise in my cell with push-ups, sit-ups, and anything to keep my body strong and ready. I eat food that tastes like nothing. I avoid eye contact in the yard, but I never show weakness. I’m always aware of the angles, the blind spots, and the men who watch too closely. I keep to myself and speak only when necessary. I become a ghost among ghosts.

But the kid keeps appearing. Sometimes, in the mess hall, seated three tables away, eyes tracking my movements. Sometimes, in the yard, leaning against the fence, talking to men I know are connected to rivals of the Avilov family.

Testing. Watching. Waiting.

On the fourth day, a new guard appears outside my cell during the count. He’s younger than most, with a nervous twitch in his left eye. His uniform hangs slightly askew on his frame, as if he hasn’t grown into the authority it represents.

“Popov,” he says, his voice carefully neutral. “You've got mail.”

He slides an envelope through the bars. Plain white with no return address.

I don’t move to take it immediately, my instincts screaming caution. In here, even paper can be a weapon soaked in chemicals, laced with threats.

The guard's eyes dart left, then right. “Special delivery,” he adds, his voice dropping. “From someone who says the baby's kicking strong.”

My heart stutters in my chest.

Sandy.

I take the envelope, keeping my expression blank despite the surge of emotion. The guard moves on quickly, continuing his count as if nothing happened.

I carefully open the envelope inside my cell, away from watchful eyes. The paper inside is high-quality and thick between my fingers. It’s not the regular mail that passes through a dozen hands and scanners before reaching inmates.

Two photographs slide out. One shows Isaak Kiril shaking hands with Benjamin Petrov in what appears to be a parking garage. The second shows the same men exchanging what seems to be an envelope.

And below, in handwriting I recognize instantly:We're getting closer. Hold on. I love you. We love you.

I stare at the images, understanding crashing over me like ice water. Sandy isn’t just sitting at home waiting. She’s digging, fighting, and risking everything to gather evidence that can free me. Pride and terror war inside my chest.

What the hell is she doing? How did she even get these photographs?The thought of her anywhere near Kiril makes my rage simmer. If Morozov finds out she is investigating him...

I close my eyes and breathe deeply, trying to calm the panic that threatens to overwhelm me. I can’t lose control. Not here. Not where weakness is like blood in shark-infested waters.

Instead, I memorize every detail of the photographs, then carefully tear them into tiny pieces. I flush them down the steel toilet in my cell, watching the evidence disappear. I keep thenote folded and hidden in the seam of my mattress, where the guards rarely check.

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