Page 48 of Tattooed Heart

“You,” I say. “You and the future we're building.”

I lean down and kiss her, pouring everything I can’t say with words into it. The gratitude and unbreakable bond that has survived separation and slander.

That night, we did rest. But first, we reminded each other what we were fighting for. What made all the risk worthwhile. Her body was against mine, our hearts beating in sync, and we whispered our plans for after the storm passed.

As she sleeps beside me, her breathing deep and peaceful, I stare at the ceiling and continue planning. Petrov will be just the beginning. A message written in fear rather than blood. A statement that will echo through the criminal underworld.

The Popov family is not broken. The Avilov family will not break. And I am not beaten. By the time I return to Sandy's side after tomorrow's mission, I will have already begun writing Petrov's end. Not with bullets or blades but with the precise destruction of everything he believes keeps him safe.

That is the true power of the Bratva. Not violence for its own sake, but the strategic application of pressure until the enemy crumbles from within, understanding that crossing us is not just a mistake but a fatal miscalculation.

I turn toward Sandy, watching her chest rise and fall gently. For her, our family, and our future, I will ensure that our enemies learn that lesson well. Tomorrow will be the first chapter in their education. And I will be a thorough teacher.

16

DIMITRI

We move like ghosts through the night, our footsteps barely audible against the cracked asphalt. The alley behind the Hawthorne Club reeks of old piss and cigarette ash, a place where secrets are traded, and lives end without ceremony. The streetlamps overhead have an anemic glow, barely illuminating the narrow corridor between the buildings. We performed this dance many times before.

The spring air holds a bite tonight, carrying the scent of rain that fell earlier in the evening. New York City never truly sleeps, but we are tucked away from the main thoroughfares in a pocket of eerie silence broken only by distant sirens and the occasional drunk stumbling home.

Lev secures the side entrance with expertise, slicing through the club's service alarm with a deft hand and a whisper of wires. His fingers move with surgical precision, disconnecting and reconnecting circuits until the security system surrenders quietly. He gives a short nod, confirming our path is clear.

Yuri stands at my side, his massive frame coiled with anticipation and his eyes methodically sweeping the alley for any sign of movement.

Aleksandr positions himself at the corner of the alley, half-shielded by a parked black SUV, watching the service door with the detached calm of a man who has orchestrated far worse operations. His jet-black hair absorbs the minimal light while his ice-blue eyes gleam with predatory focus. At thirty-three, my brother has already cemented his reputation as the most ruthless Bratva leader on the East Coast. As head of the Avilov family, he commands respect and inspires terror in equal measure.

“He's in booth seventeen,” Lev whispers, tapping the screen of his burner phone. The blue glow illuminates his face for a moment. “Same as last time. Drink in hand, back to the wall, no guards tonight. Overconfidentmudak.”

“Then let us move,” Aleksandr orders, his tone dripping with authority. My brother does not ask or suggest. He commands, and men obey. He uses the same tone that has ordered executions without remorse and negotiated million-dollar deals without flinching.

I’m first through the door.

The kitchen sprawls before us, industrial and utilitarian, with staff long gone for the night. The scent of old grease and spilled alcohol clings to the air, mixing with cleaning solutions into a uniquely nauseating combination. Stainless steel surfaces reflect our silhouettes as we sweep through, our boots silent on the tile floor. Every movement is calculated, and every step is placed with intention.

The hallway beyond leads to the rear of the club. An exclusive section where privacy commands premium prices. The booths there are bathed in low blue lighting, and heavy velvet curtains shield patrons from unwanted scrutiny. The Hawthorne caters to those who require discretion, making it popular with the criminal elite and wealthy businessmen with secrets to keep.

Booth seventeen is situated near the back, partially obscured by an ornamental divider crafted from dark wood and stained glass. Through gaps in the decorative screen, I can see him. Benjamin Petrov. The man who fabricated evidence that put me behind bars.

He casually sits with one leg crossed over the other, nursing a glass of amber whiskey. His pinstripe suit appears impeccable even in the dim lighting, his signet ring catching blue reflections as he raises his glass. The smug expression on his face is one I fantasized about shattering during countless sleepless nights in my prison cell.

He never saw us coming.

Aleksandr reached him first, moving with a speed that belied his commanding position. Most Bratva leaders delegate the dirty work, but my brother has always believed in leading from the front. With a quick application of pressure to a specific point behind the ear, Petrov slumps forward without making a sound. Lev catches his body before it hits the table. At the same time, Yuri positions himself to block any potential view from other patrons. We are gone in under twenty seconds, leaving only an unfinished drink and rumpled booth cushions.

By the time we load him into the back of the black SUV parked a block away, cuffed and gagged, the street remains undisturbed. A single drunk stumbles past the alley entrance, never turninghis head toward us. The perfect witness. He is too intoxicated to be reliable, even if he did notice anything unusual.

It is a clean, professional grab that will leave police scratching their heads and filing reports that will eventually gather dust in evidence rooms.

“Drive,” Aleksandr instructs Yuri, who slides smoothly behind the wheel.

The journey to Aleksandr's estate takes forty minutes. We wind through progressively less populated areas until we reach the outskirts of the city.

Security cameras track us, and gates open automatically as we approach. The grounds spread out around us, immaculate gardens just beginning to bloom in the early spring. The driveway curves around a central fountain, currently switched off for the night, before delivering us to the rear entrance of the mansion.

Two men emerge silently to assist us, loyal enforcers who ask no questions as they help transport our unconscious cargo to the basement. We call it the dungeon. It’s built from damp stone and old despair, but it has been modernized with certain amenities that suit our purposes. The walls are solid stone, three feet thick. There are no windows. Instead, there is a hidden staircase, which is the only way in or out. It is a place where truths are extracted, not freely given.

Petrov wakes up secured to a chair bolted to the center of the room, blood already dried along his temple from where Aleksandr had dropped him during transport. His expensive suit is rumpled and stained, the careful facade of power stripped away.

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