Page 11 of Tattooed Vow

I answer. Static crackles, and then a cold Russian voice speaks. “Debt unpaid.”

Then the line goes dead.

Andrei.

I stare at the screen. The message is clear. War isn't coming. It's already here, and Sandy's in the middle of it.

I can’t protect her and keep my distance. I have to choose.

And for the first time in my life, I don’t know if duty will win.

5

SANDY

The city is drenched in that golden, late-afternoon glow, making even the cracked sidewalks and graffiti-tagged walls look like something out of a movie. But I barely notice. My mind is still spinning since last night. Dimitri's kiss, his hands, the way I practically melted against him in that wine cellar like I’ve never been touched before. God, I can still feel him. And it terrifies me.

I crank the radio louder, hoping the blaring music will drown out the memory. The bass vibrates through the steering wheel into my fingertips, but it’s not enough. It doesn’t matter how loud I turn it. Dimitri isn’t just under my skin. He’s in my head, in my blood, curling around every rational thought like smoke.

I don’t realize how fast I’m driving until I turn onto the bridge and see the flashing red and blue lights in my rearview mirror.

“Shit,” I mutter, easing off the gas and pulling onto the shoulder. The tires crunch against loose gravel as I roll down the window. The police officer approaches with measured steps, sunglasses hiding his eyes. The bridge is mostly empty, and the rush hour traffic is still an hour away.

“License and registration,” he says in an even tone.

I hand them over, keeping my hands steady while my pulse races. Old habits from the foster system. Cops are never friends there. I learned early that police mean trouble, even if you haven’t done anything wrong. Especially if you haven’t done anything wrong.

He studies them, then me. “You're Sandy Davis?”

My throat tightens. “Yes.”

Something in his tone makes me uneasy. It’s not a simple confirmation. It’s recognition, like he knows me or is looking for me.

His eyes linger a second too long, sweeping over my face with uncomfortable scrutiny. Then he hands everything back. “Watch your speed.”

I exhale slowly as he walks away, my knuckles white against the steering wheel. My heartbeat gradually slows, but the uneasiness remains. As I merge back into traffic, I check my mirrors obsessively, noticing a black SUV that wasn’t behind me before. The windows are tinted dark, and the license plate is too far away to read. I switch lanes; it follows. I slow down; it stays the same distance.

It follows me to the Lower East Side, staying three car lengths behind me, never closer, never farther. Just enough to make its presence known.

I park in front of my apartment building, a walk-up with peeling paint and cheap rent that’s been home for the past two years. I cut the engine and stare at the SUV in my side mirror. It stoppedhalf a block away, its engine still running. The windows are too dark to see inside. There was no movement or sound.

I tell myself it’s nothing, just paranoia. Leftover anxiety from last night. From letting someone get too close. But the longer I sit there, the worse the knot in my stomach grows. Being on my own since I was five has taught me to trust my instincts.

I grab my bag and step out, locking the car behind me. The street is eerily quiet. The usual late-afternoon chaos has been replaced by a hollow stillness. I can hear the echo of my footsteps on the concrete, the distant wail of a siren, and the thump of my heart in my ears.

Suddenly, the SUV door opens, and two men step out. They aren’t cops or curious neighbors. They move with purpose, eyes locked on me.

My pulse explodes. I bolt for the side alley, adrenaline shooting through my veins.

“Hey!” the tall, dark-haired one barks.

I sprint down the narrow alley, dodging garbage bags and broken crates. My boots slip on damp concrete, but I catch myself against a brick wall and keep moving. My heart pounds like a jackhammer. I duck through a gap between two buildings and emerge into a small courtyard cluttered with old furniture and rusted fire escapes.

I hear them behind me—heavy footsteps and the crackle of a radio. “She’s heading east through the courtyard,” one of them says in Russian-accented English.

I take the fire escape, scrambling up as fast as I can. The metal groans under my weight, cold against my palms. Halfway up, Irisk a glance down. The man with the neck tattoo is already at the base, reaching up, his fingers missing my ankle by inches.

“Stop running,” he calls, his voice deceptively calm. “We just want to talk.”

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