Page 10 of Tattooed Heart

He steps toward the cell door and knocks once. It slides open, the light spilling in again.

“I’ll get you out,” he vows without turning, his voice low and lethal. “You’re not done yet. I’m getting someone inside. Someone we can trust. Until then, keep your head down and stay alive.”

He glances back, eyes burning like lit fuses. “One way or another, I’m pulling you out of this hell.”

I force a smirk through the pain. “Then move fast,brat. I’m running out of patience—and mercy.”

He pauses but doesn’t respond.

“And maybe get a new cot, too. This one's shit.”

Then he was gone. The door slams shut behind him, steel against stone.

And I’m alone again.

I lean against the wall, one hand sliding to my side, where a bruise blooms beneath my shirt. The pain keeps me sharp. It reminds me I’m still alive.

Morozov wants me dead? He'll have to do better. Because when I get out of here, I’m coming for blood.

Hours pass like thick honey. I run through mental exercises to keep my mind sharp. Russian vocabulary my grandmother taught me as a child. Floor plans of buildings I memorized for Bratva operations. The exact sequence of events that led me here.

Morozov set me up. He has enough influence to fabricate evidence, to convince a judge that I’m an imminent threat who needs to be locked away immediately. The charges are laughable to anyone who knows the truth. Attempted murder of a federal witness who doesn’t exist, obstruction of justice in a case I have no connection to. However, the evidence they manufactured is convincing enough for a judge who already has a grudge against the Bratva.

I trace the seven stitches on my cheek, feeling the tight pull of healing skin. The doctor was right. This one will leave a scar. Another mark to add to my collection. Sandy always says my scars tell stories. This one will tell of betrayal, a system riggedagainst men like me, and enemies who will stop at nothing to see me buried.

The scrape of metal against concrete pulls me from my thoughts. Heavy and purposeful footsteps approach my cell. It isn’t the regular guard rotation. My muscles tense automatically, preparing for whatever comes next.

The metal slot slides open with a dull clank. Jensen’s voice comes through, low and even.

“You've got a new neighbor, Popov. Thought you should know.”

His tone is casual, almost conversational, but there is no mistaking the intent behind them.

“Is that right?” I keep my voice neutral, revealing nothing.

“Yeah. Some Russian guy. Transferred in this morning.” He pauses, letting the implication sink in. “Name's Orlov.”

My breath catches in my throat. Danil Orlov. One of Aleksandr's men. The “ally” he promised.

So, it begins. The first move in a game that will either set me free or bury me. I feel a smile tug at the corner of my mouth.

“Thanks for the update,” I reply evenly.

The guard nods once, then disappears. I don’t know if he was on our payroll now or just happened to be one of the decent ones. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that Aleksandr fulfilled his promise. He got someone on the inside who can watch my back, relay messages, and maybe even help engineer a way out of this hellhole.

I sink onto the cot and draw in a breath, the first real one I’ve taken since the day they arrested me.

That night, I had a dream about Sandy. Not as I'd last seen her, pale with worry and trying desperately to be strong for both of us. But as she will be when I return home. Glowing. Fierce. Her body growing with our child. In the dream, I place my hand on her stomach and feel our baby kick against my palm, a tiny heartbeat pulsing beneath my fingers.

I wake with fire in my veins.

Across the cell, the small window shows the first hint of dawn, a pale glow that does little to brighten the darkness. Another day, another step closer to freedom or death.

The Russian in me, the Bratva soldier trained to kill without remorse, wants blood. I want to tear Morozov apart with my bare hands and make him suffer as I’m suffering. To ensure that when death finally comes for him, it will be slow and painful. A lesson written in agony that no one will forget.

But the man I’m trying to be, that Sandy believes I can be, wants justice. I want the evidence to clear my name and to walk out of here with my head held high. To return to her and our child with clean hands and build a future that isn’t founded on more bloodshed.

I’m not sure which man will win in the end. Perhaps both. Perhaps neither.

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