Page 73 of Tattooed Vow

I continue to hold her, my fingers lightly tracing patterns on her shoulder as the moonlight streams in and shadows dance across her face. Sleep continues to elude me as the hours tick steadily toward dawn, but I remain still, unwilling to disturb her rest. In these quiet moments with Sandy sleeping in my arms, I find a strange peace. A reminder of exactly what I’m fighting for.

26

DIMITRI

Dawn breaks with a dull, gray light that seems fitting for what will come. I stand in front of the mirror, methodically checking each weapon before securing it to my person. The gun is in my shoulder holster, a backup piece strapped to my ankle, and a knife sheathed at the small of my back. A ritual I've performed countless times throughout my life in the Bratva.

Only this time, it feels different.

I glance back at the bed where Sandy is sleeping, her face peacefully in repose, one hand resting protectively over her stomach. The sight of her sends a surge of determination through me. Today, I will end the threat that hands over her, over us, and over the child growing within her.

I approach the bed quietly, leaning down to kiss her forehead gently. She stirs slightly but doesn’t wake. Better this way. No tearful goodbyes, no last-minute pleas that might weaken my resolve.

“I will come back to you,” I whisper, the promise like a vow between us. Then I straighten, harden my expression, and leave the room.

As I descend the grand staircase, the mansion stirs to life. Staff move with quiet efficiency, preparing for the day ahead, careful not to disturb the family quarters. Aleksandr waits for me at the bottom of the stairs, his face grave.

“Everything is in place,” he confirms without preamble. He opposed this plan initially. Too risky, he argued. But he knows as well as I do that Morozov will only take the bait if he believes I’ll be there alone.

“Good,” I reply, matching his tone. “The teams?”

“In position. Viktor reports all approach routes are secured. Surveillance confirms movement in Morozov's compound. Vehicles are preparing to depart.”

I nod feeling the familiar cold focus settle over me. “And you?”

Aleksandr's jaw tightens. “I will be at the command post as agreed. Though I still believe?—”

“We've been through this,” I interrupted. “Morozov needs to believe I'm there to negotiate alone. Any hint of your presence will make him suspicious.”

Aleksandr studies me before clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Be careful,brat. That child needs a father.” His eyes, so like Otets, hold mine. “And I need my brother.”

The rare display of emotion from Aleksandr catches me off guard. We grew up in a world where sentiment was weakness and brotherhood was expressed through loyalty rather thanwords. But this past year has changed him. Marriage to Talia and the birth of his daughter has softened some of his harder edges.

“I'll be careful,” I assure, clasping his forearm briefly. “Let's end this today.”

The drive to the abandoned distillery takes us through the awakening city. In spring, New York reveals its dual nature. Crumbling buildings stand in the shadow of historic landmarks, and staggering wealth exists just blocks from relentless poverty. This is a fitting backdrop for what our Bratva has become under the Avilov leadership. A force that maintains order and operates by a code rather than the unchecked brutality that organizations like Morozov's represented.

“The latest intel?” I ask Pavel, my driver and one of my trusted enforcers.

“Three vehicles spotted leaving Morozov's compound twenty minutes ago,” he replies, eyes never leaving the road. “Our spotters confirm eight men, heavily armed. Morozov is with them.”

So, he has taken the bait. Despite my confidence in our plan, part of me worried he might send his high-ranked enforcers rather than come himself. But I had calculated correctly. His pride and need for revenge had overridden caution.

“And the Butcher?” I ask. A man whose nickname has been earned through actions that turn even my stomach.

“Confirmed in the second vehicle.”

Good. Eliminating the Butcher will be almost as valuable as taking down Morozov himself. He was the architect of Morozov's expansion into New York, the man responsible for the deaths ofthree of our people last month. His brutality is legendary, even in our world.

We arrive at our staging area, two blocks from the distillery, with thirty minutes to spare. The location is industrial and largely abandoned, perfect for our purposes. Minimal civilian presence, multiple approach routes, and good sight lines for our snipers.

Viktor meets me as I exit the vehicle, his face set in its customary grim expression. “All teams in position,” he reports. “Snipers have established sight lines to all entry points. Extraction teams ready.”

I nod checking my watch. “And Aleksandr?”

“In the command vehicle as planned. He's linked into our communications.”

I take a moment to survey our forces. Six men are visible, and another eight are strategically positioned around the perimeter and inside the distillery. All loyal, all experienced. Many have been with the Avilov Bratva since before Otets death.

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