Page 65 of Tattooed Vow

“The man,” Aleksandr continues, “who has been feeding information to Andrei Morozov while pretending to give us intelligence from inside his operation.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Ilya replies, his voice steady despite his precarious position. Always the professional, even now.

I push off from the wall, taking a step closer. “Save it, Ilya. We have confirmation from multiple sources.”

His eyes land on me briefly before returning to Aleksandr. “What sources?”

“Nick Parisi, for one,” I reply, watching his reaction. A flash of surprise crosses his features before he can mask it. “Yes, he survived the hit at the coffee shop. He heard quite a bit about your arrangement with the Butcher before Morozov's men tried to silence him.”

“That gambling addict?” Ilya scoffs. “He'd say anything to save his own skin.”

“Perhaps,” Aleksandr concedes, standing directly behind Ilya, hands resting on the back of the chair. “But then there's the matter of the phone we found in your apartment. The one with only one contact. A number we've traced to Daniil Kozlov—Morozov's communications man.”

A muscle twitches in Ilya's cheek. The first real crack in his composure.

“And finally,” I add, “there's the fact that we fed you false information yesterday about a shipment coming through Port Newark. Information that, within hours, reached Morozov's ears.” I lean in close my voice dropping to a low growl. “We lost no men in the ambush, Ilya. But Morozov lost six.”

Ilya's eyes meet mine, and what I see isn’t fear or regret. It’s pure and cold hatred. This man who has fought beside me, who has shared vodka and stories of our childhoods, who saved my life in the shootout with the Italians last year, has been plotting my death all along.

“How long?” I ask, the question grating from my throat.

Ilya's lips curve in a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Long enough, Dimitri. Long enough to know all your weaknesses.”

Aleksandr's hand shoots out, gripping Ilya's hair and yanking his head back at a painful angle. “You will address him as Mr. Popov, you piece of shit. You've lost the right to any familiarity.”

“It doesn't matter what he calls me,” I clarify, maintaining my composure despite the rage burning in my veins. “What matters is what he's told Morozov. About our operations. About our security. About Sandy.”

At the mention of her name, Ilya's smile widens fractionally. Cold dread pools in my stomach.

“Your American girl,” he says softly. “She's very beautiful, Dimitri. Morozov has noticed. The Butcher especially.”

My control slips. Before I realize what I’m doing, my fist connects with his jaw in a blow that would have knocked him to the floor if he hadn't been secured to the chair. Blood sprays from his split lip.

“Dimitri,” Aleksandr cautions, his hand on my shoulder. A reminder of who we are, of the reputation of the Avilov Bratva. We don’t lose control. We calculate. We plan. We execute.

I step back, wiping Ilya's blood from my knuckles with a handkerchief. “You're right,brat. We have time.”

Ilya spits blood onto the concrete floor. “Time? You think you have time?” He laughs harshly, the sound echoing off the stone walls. “Morozov already knows everything about your precious Sandy. Her apartment. Her workplace. That little bakery shelikes on 7th Avenue. The Butcher has been keeping tabs since the moment she entered your life.”

I keep my face impassive, though inside, ice forms around my heart.

“Why would Morozov care about an American woman with no connection to our world?” I ask coldly, though I already know the answer.

Ilya's expression shifts to one of genuine amusement. “Because she matters to you, Dimitri. And Morozov knows that destroying what you care about will hurt you more than a bullet ever could.”

Aleksandr steps forward, all pretense of patience gone. He pulls a knife from inside his jacket. It’s our father's hunting knife, with its worn bone handle and seven-inch blade that has taken countless lives.

“Enough games,” he hisses, pressing the tip of the blade under Ilya's chin just hard enough to draw a bead of blood. “You're going to tell us everything. What Morozov knows. What he plans.”

“Or what?” Ilya challenges. “You'll kill me? We both know I'm a dead man either way.”

“Death can be quick,” I caution, “or it can last days. Your choice.”

Something shimmers in Ilya's eyes. Not fear exactly, but calculation. The enforcer in him assesses the odds, looking for leverage or a way out.

“I want protection,” he finally says. “Not fromyou—I know better than to trust the word of an Avilov. I want extraction. A new identity. Somewhere Morozov can't reach.”

Aleksandr laughs, the sound utterly devoid of humor. “You think you're in a position to negotiate? After what you've done?”

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