Page 19 of Tattooed Vow

“We need to draw him out,” Aleksandr says finally. “Before he forces our hand.”

I take another drink, savoring the burn. “We don’t know how deep his reach is. We don’t know who else he’s brought with him.”

Aleksandr turns back toward the window. “Then we find out,brat.”

I nod. “Da. I’ll handle it.”

“No,” Aleksandr says sharply, glancing back. “We’ll handle it. As a family.”

Family. The word is sacred in our world, more binding than blood or any oath. It means protection. Loyalty. Vengeance when necessary.

I leave the office in silence, my mind already racing with plans. I need to move Sandy somewhere safe where Morozov can’t reach her. I need to find every rat in our organization who might feed him information. And I need to end this before it truly begins.

Andrei Morozov has dragged the past into the present and declared war. The problem is, I’m not sure if I want to end him for revenge…or for Sandy.

Either way, his days are numbered. And I’m going to be the one to collect the debt.

8

SANDY

The Underground pulses with bass-heavy music, low lights, and just enough smoke curling in the air to make the neon signs glow like ghosts. Exposed brick walls and industrial steel beams give the place its gritty charm, while velvet-lined booths soften the edges. The dance floor throbs with bodies, swaying and grinding under the flickering glow of purple and red lights. It’s the type of club where you can lose yourself…or hide if you want to.

I’ve been working at The Underground for a year, long enough to become part of its ecosystem. The regulars know me, the bouncers protect me, and the rhythm of the place has seeped into my bones. Pour, serve, smile, repeat. It’s reliable in a life that’s offered little stability.

Behind the bar, I move on autopilot, slinging drinks, smiling when necessary, and ignoring the occasional leering comment. The regulars are out in full force tonight. Casey, one of our usuals, laughs too loudly as she nurses a vodka tonic and drapes herself over the bar’s edge. Her pupils are dilated, mascara slightly smudged, and her words slur just enough to tell me shestarted drinking well before she arrived. I make a mental note to water down her next drink.

“Sandy, you’re an angel,” she says, pushing her empty glass toward me. “Another but make it stronger this time.”

I nod, doing exactly the opposite of what she asks. Casey is harmless but messy when she crosses the line from tipsy to drunk. Tonight isn’t the night I want to deal with that.

A pair of college kids try desperately to impress two women out of their league, flashing credit cards and name-dropping clubs they claim to have VIP access to. The women exchange knowing glances that say they’re only here for the free drinks.

An older man sits alone in the corner, eyes glassy, sipping a neat scotch like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. A pale band marks his ring finger where a wedding ring was recently removed.

There’s a rhythm to the chaos I usually find comforting. The sticky floors, the shouted drink orders, the occasional drama of a breakup or a hookup playing out in the dim corners. But tonight, something feels different. Unease gnaws at me, subtle at first, until I realize someone’s watching me.

It’s not the usual kind of attention I get from drunk guys or the occasional woman who slips me her number. This is different—focused and deliberate. A chill creeps up my spine as my eyes scan the room and lock onto a man seated alone at the far end of the bar. He isn’t dancing. He isn’t drinking. He’s sitting and watching me intently.

He has medium blonde hair, sharp features, and a calm stillness that makes every instinct I have scream. His posture is too relaxed and deliberate as if he’s waiting for somethingor someone. His clothes are expensive but understated. A gray button-down rolled to the elbows reveals his muscular forearms, dark jeans, and a watch that costs more than I make in three months.

I try to shake it off, moving to refill drinks and chat with regulars, but every time I glance up, his eyes are locked on me. Not the way men usually look, eager and entitled. This is clinical. Assessing.

Marco, the other bartender, nudges me as he squeezes past with a tray of shots. “You okay? You look spooked.”

“I’m fine,” I lie, rubbing the goosebumps that rise on my arms. “Just a weird night.”

“Tell me about it. Some guy just tipped me fifty bucks to point you out. Said he was an old friend.” Marco shrugs. “Rich dude at the corner table.”

My stomach drops as I follow his gaze to a dark-haired man I hadn’t noticed before, sitting in one of the booths with a perfect view of the bar. He’s built like a linebacker with a neck thicker than my thigh and hands that could crush a skull without effort. He’s wearing a black T-shirt stretched across his broad chest, revealing the edges of tattoos that disappear under the fabric.

I’ve spent my life learning to recognize danger, and now every cell in my body is on high alert.

“Marco, cover my section for five minutes?” I ask, keeping my voice casual despite the panic rising in my throat.

“Sure thing. Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Just need a minute.”

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