Page 5 of Tattooed Heart

Only when I was outside, away from the cameras and the guards, did I let myself crumble. In the privacy of the car, I'd sobbed—for Dimitri, our baby, and the life that had been so cruelly interrupted. But when the tears dried, something else took their place. Determination. Resolve. Rage.

Now, hours later, I stand in the silence of the Avilov estate, my reflection ghostly in the window glass. The woman staring back at me is someone I barely recognize, her eyes hollow, her skin pale, her hand resting protectively over the small swell of her stomach.

I didn’t sleep that night. I couldn’t. I lay in bed with one hand resting against my stomach, the tiny baby bump a constant reminder that time is running out. I need Dimitri here with me. He hasn’t felt the baby kick yet or seen it on the ultrasound monitor, and he won’t get the chance if I don’t do something.

By dawn, I’m downstairs in the kitchen planning. Talia takes one look at me, and she pulls me into a hug that undid me more than I care to admit.

“Tell me what you need,” she says, her voice low and steady.

I tell her everything. The late-night visit. The way Dimitri looked. The feeling I can’t shake that something worse is coming. That I need to come up with a plan. Talia doesn’t hesitate. She is already reaching for her phone.

“Aleksandr needs to know,” she says, her thumb hovering over the call button. My brother-in-law, thepakhanof the Avilov Bratva, isn’t someone you keep in the dark.

“He'll try to stop me,” I warn.

Talia meets my gaze, steady and unflinching. “He’ll try,” she states. “Aleksandr knows what it means to protect family. Dimitri is his brother. But you? You’re family too.”

My chest tightens, not just at her words but at the truth behind them. Aleksandr and Talia are my family. But Dimitri? He is something else entirely.

“Dimitri is mine,” I say, the words escaping with a fierceness that surprises me. He is my heart, my fight, my future. We belong to each other in a way that doesn’t need explanation.

The coffee machine gurgles to life, filling the kitchen with the rich aroma of fresh espresso. Talia pours two cups, setting one in front of me. The normalcy of the gesture is almost comical, given the circumstances.

“We need to find out who's pulling strings inside the prison,” I note, my mind racing through possibilities. “Morozov has someone on the inside. Someone who can make sure Dimitri doesn't make it to trial.”

Talia's expression darkens. “Aleksandr's already working on that. But his reach inside the prison system is limited.”

“What about Lev?” I suggest. Lev is Aleksandr's right hand, a man whose loyalty is as absolute as his capacity for violence.

“He's been making inquiries,” Talia admits. “But we need more. We need someone who can get close to Morozov.” She reaches for her phone.

Lev shows up less than an hour later. He always carries an air of coiled violence, like he can snap a neck and finish his coffee in the same breath. He listens quietly while I explain what I want. Names, connections, any hint of who might be pulling stringsfor Morozov inside the prison or the justice system. Lev doesn’t blink.

“I know a few people,” he confirms. “But Aleksandr won't want you going rogue or putting yourself in danger. Besides, these people won't talk to me. Not without a reason.”

“Then we give them one,” I counter. “And if that doesn't work, we find someone who knows how Morozov thinks.”

Which brought me to Nick, my ex-boyfriend.

I hadn't seen him since that day in the coffee shop. The day Morozov's men came for me and almost killed us both. Aleksandr had tucked him away under Avilov protection, probably to keep him from running his mouth. I know where he is, and I also know he owes me.

Getting access to him wasn't difficult. Convincing him to open the door was.

“Sandy,” he gasps, eyes wide as he pulls me into the apartment. He looks like hell. Scruffy, gaunt, hollowed-out look from too many nights staring out the window waiting for a bullet.

“Don't say anything. Just listen,” I instruct.

And he did for once.

I laid it out. Dimitri. The false charges. Morozov's reach into the system. Nick doesn’t argue. He just drags a hand down his face, the reality of it all sinking into his features like he already knows how bad it is.

“I told him,” Nick mutters, pacing. “I told Dimitri it wouldn't be easy to take down Morozov.”

“You owe me, Nick. You owe him. And you're going to help me.”

He doesn’t like it. I can see the fear shining behind his eyes. But I also see a hint of guilt.

“What do you want from me?”

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