Page 16 of Tattooed Vow

Dimitri leans in, resting his forearms on the counter. The movement brings him close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes and smell the faint scent of his soap mixed with coffee.

“You don’t have to be like Talia. You only have to be you. You protect fiercely and love without question. That’s what matters.” His voice is low, resonant. “I’ve seen how you are with the kids. The way you watch over them. That’s not someone who would fail a child.”

My chest tightens. He’s been noticing things I didn’t even realize are visible. “I never really learned how to take care of anyone. Not properly. Not until Talia. She was the first person who didn’t leave.” I force a weak, humorless laugh. “Most days, I’m pretty sure I failed at that, too.”

His voice softens. “Or maybe it’s just time to let someone take care of you.”

The air between us thickens. I feel it in my bones, the slow pull drawing me closer to him without us moving. His gaze drops tomy lips briefly before returning to my eyes, a question written in them that neither of us is brave enough to voice.

His phone buzzed on the counter, breaking whatever fragile moment we were about to enter. He checks the screen, his expression hardening instantly.

“It’s Lev,” he says, answering immediately. He speaks in Russian, sharp and fast, before ending the call. When he looks back at me, the softness is gone, replaced by steel. “Lev found the car. We’ve got a name.”

My stomach sinks. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’ll handle it.”

His voice is flat and final. The Dimitri from moments ago, the one who made breakfast and spoke of children, vanishes, replaced by the enforcer I first met.

I want to press, but the look in his eyes tells me he won’t budge. He’s already decided, and arguing would push him further behind those walls he momentarily lowered.

And somehow, despite the danger, despite everything, I realize I trust him. Maybe more than I should. Maybe more than is safe for either of us.

As he stands gathering the dishes, I catch myself wondering where exactly the line is between the man who killed for Otets and the man who makes me breakfast. And which one, ultimately, will shape whatever is growing between us.

7

DIMITRI

The morning air is thick and warm, smelling of the city's grime and grease. I exit the car, and Lev and Viktor are already waiting. They're dressed in dark, nondescript clothing that doesn't draw attention. We stand across the street from a crumbling apartment where neighbors mind their business or disappear.

The concrete beneath my boots is cracked and stained, much like everything else in this neighborhood. I check my watch—5:47 AM. The street is quiet, with only the occasional delivery truck or early-shift workers passing by. It’s perfect for our purposes.

Lev adjusts his jacket. “Same plate. Same model. It hasn’t moved since last night.”

I nod, watching the rusted fire escape, the flickering neon OPEN sign of the corner deli, and the boarded-up windows. “We wait.”

Viktor lights a cigarette, cupping the flame against the breeze. His scarred hands betray years of this life—knuckles that have connected with flesh and bone and fingers that have pulled triggers without hesitation. He takes a long drag, exhalingslowly. “Morozov's men are getting sloppy if they’re staying in one place this long.”

“Or they want to be found,” I counter, scanning the building’s facade.

Lev shifts his weight, always restless. His loyalty to Aleksandr, and by extension, to me, is absolute. Born into the Bratva, he knows nothing else and doesn’t want to. “Think it’s a trap?”

I shrug. “Everything in this life is a trap of some kind.”

We spend hours watching. The city moves around us as we wait. Kids with backpacks, shopkeepers opening stores, and the occasional junkie staggering down the sidewalk. But nothing about the apartment changes. Curtains remain drawn, and the SUV sits like a trap waiting to be sprung.

Viktor maintains his position, occasionally checking his phone. His calm can be unnerving sometimes. I've seen him execute men with that same placid expression like he's merely completing a tedious chore.

My thoughts drift to Sandy, and how her eyes crinkle when she laughs, her hair smells of vanilla, and the soft curve of her hip feels beneath my palm. She deserves better than this, better than me, with my blood-stained hands and tarnished soul. But selfish men take what they want, and I've always been selfish.

A little after noon, we finally see movement. The tall one, dark-haired and sharp-eyed, emerges first, lighting a cigarette before leaning against the stoop. Minutes later, the second with the neck tattoo and light brown hair steps out, glancing up and down the street like he expects trouble.

He’s not wrong.

They speak briefly, then slip inside.

I motion to Lev and Viktor. “Let’s go.”

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