Page 18 of Tattooed Vow

“Blyat! You good?” I ask.

Lev nods, gripping his bleeding shoulder. “It’ll hold.”

I scan the room. Blood pools on the floor, mixing with the filth already there.

Viktor moves efficiently, checking the apartment for any other threats or evidence. He rifles through drawers and cabinets while I search the bodies.

In the tall one’s pocket I find a burner phone. There are no contacts, just one number in the call log. I pocket it for later. The tattooed one has nothing but cigarettes, a lighter, and a crumpled photo of a woman, perhaps someone waiting for him to return. She’ll wait forever now.

“We should go,” Lev says, his voice strained. Blood seeps through his fingers, where he clutches his wound.

Lev and Viktor flank me as we exit the apartment, leaving behind the bodies and the wreckage. The sound of sirens wails faintly in the distance. We move quickly and quietly, blending into the city's rhythm like nothing has happened.

Lev presses a hand to his bleeding shoulder but doesn’t complain. He’s tougher than most, which is why I trusted him to be here in the first place. Viktor stays sharp, eyes scanning every corner as we return to the car.

As soon as we’re on the road, I call Aleksandr.

He answers on the second ring. “Talk.”

“We confirmed it. The men were Morozov’s,” I say. “Two down, but there will be more.”

Aleksandr exhales. “Meet me.”

I hang up without another word. The drive is tense, filled with the unspoken reality of what’s coming. A war between families never ends quickly or cleanly. There will be more blood, more bodies, more grief before this is over.

When we arrive at the Avilov estate, Aleksandr is already waiting in his office, standing by the tall windows overlooking the gardens. With its dark wood paneling and heavy furniture, the room feels like the center of our world where power is wielded, decisions are made, and blood debts are tallied.

He turns as we enter, already pouring four shots of whiskey. His raven hair is immaculate, his posture rigid. He commands respect with every movement. As thepakhanof our Bratva, he's survived countless murder attempts and has eliminated all who've opposed him.

We each take a glass and down it, before I begin. The whiskey burns a familiar path down my throat, warming my chest.

“They were holed up in a cover apartment,” I report. “Temporary. No records. No links to Morozov on paper. They knew we’d come eventually. Lev took a round to the shoulder.”

Lev nods once like it’s nothing.

Aleksandr’s sharp blue eyes land on Lev’s wound. “Have the doctor fix you up.”

Lev leaves without argument to see the Bratva doctor, who’s always on call. Viktor trails behind him, leaving Aleksandr and me alone.

Aleksandr refills our glasses. “And Morozov’s intentions?”

I meet his gaze. “Revenge. Plain and simple.”

He sucks on his front teeth. “He’s waited a long time to act. Why now?”

“Because we’re stable. Stronger than ever. If he’s going to strike, it has to be now.”

Aleksandr nods slowly. “And he’s aiming for Sandy?”

I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms. The mere thought of her name on Morozov’s lips makes my blood boil. “She’s the weak spot for me. Or so he thinks.”

Aleksandr’s eyes narrow, studying me. “And is she?”

“No,” I say without hesitation. But even as I speak, I know it isn’t entirely true. Sandy has changed things for me. She makes me want more than this life of violence and power. She makes me imagine possibilities I never dared to consider.

“But Morozov doesn’t care,” I continue. “He’ll use her to bait me. Or worse.”

Aleksandr stares at me for a long moment. He knows me well. He sees through my lies, even the ones I tell myself.

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