Page 74 of Tattooed Vow

“Remember,” I tell Viktor as we prepare to move into position, “Morozov is to be taken alive if possible. I want information before he dies.”

Viktor's eyes harden. “And if that's not an option?”

“Then make sure he's dead,” I reply coldly. “But I'd prefer to look him in the eyes when he realizes he's lost everything.”

The distillery looms against the gray morning sky. A light mist has settled, reducing visibility and muffling sounds. Ideal conditions for an ambush.

I enter alone through the main doors, exactly as our leaked information indicated I would. The cavernous main hall stretches before me, rusted machinery looming like the skeletons of ancient beasts. Streams of weak daylight filter through broken windows high above, projecting eerie patterns across the debris-strewn floor.

I position myself in the center of the space, visible from the main entrance but with clear sight lines to the positions where my men are concealed. Then I wait, counting seconds in my head, feeling my pulse slow as I settle into that space of absolute focus that has kept me alive all these years.

The crunch of tires on the gravel outside announces their arrival. Then, the car doors slam. Muttered commands. Footsteps approach the entrance. Multiple sets, moving with the measured caution of men anticipating trouble.

“They're entering the building,” comes the quiet update in my earpiece. “Eight men visible. Morozov confirmed among them. The Butcher on his left flank.”

I remain motionless as the heavy metal door at the far end of the hall scrapes open. Silhouettes appear in the doorway, backlit by the gray morning light. They advance cautiously into the hall, weapons drawn but lowered, confident in their superior numbers but not reckless.

Then I see him. Andrei Morozov. Even in the dim light, I recognize his distinctive gait, the result of an old injury sustained years ago in a power struggle that decimated three rival families. Beside him stalked the Butcher. A mountain of a man whose flat, emotionless eyes have witnessed atrocities beyond imagining.

“Popov,” Morozov calls, his voice carrying across the space between us. “I must admit, I'm surprised. I didn't think you were foolish enough to come alone.”

“Some matters require a personal touch,” I answer, my voice deliberately casual. “After your little test of our security last month, I thought it time we spoke directly.”

Morozov chuckles, a sound devoid of humor. “A conversation long overdue. Though I'm disappointed your brother didn't join us.”

“Aleksandr has more important matters to attend to,” I state, watching his enforcers spread out in a loose semicircle.

“And what exactly do you wish to speak about?” Morozov asks, stopping about fifteen feet from me. Close enough for conversation, far enough to react if I make a sudden move.

“Terms,” I say simply. “This conflict between us has become...wasteful.”

Morozov raises an eyebrow. “Terms? After you and your brother destroyed my trafficking operation? After you personally put a bullet in my brother’s head?” His voice hardens. “There are no terms, Dimitri Popov. There is only the inevitable correction of an imbalance.”

The Butcher shifts slightly, his hand moving closer to his weapon. I note the movement while maintaining my focus on Morozov.

“Your business violated our code,” I reply evenly. “Trafficking young girls across Russia and then killing them was never part of our agreement with the other families. Your brother knew the consequences when he established those networks.”

“The market demanded it,” Morozov shrugs, unconcerned. “Unlike your brother, I don't allow outdated principles to limit profitable opportunities.”

“Those 'outdated principles' are what separates us from common criminals,” I reply, carefully watching the positions of his enforcers. “The code exists for a reason. Without it, we're nothing but thugs with guns.”

“The code,” Morozov spits, “is a relic. I follow only one code—take what I want and exact revenge on those who cross me.” His eyes glitter with malice. “And your Sandy will pay the highest price. When I'm done with you, I'll find her, and I promise you, her death will be excruciatingly slow. Perhaps I'll make her beg before the end, make her wish she'd never met you.”

Something dark and primal rises within me at his words, but I keep my expression cold and controlled. “That's not going to happen.”

“Then we have nothing more to discuss,” Morozov says, raising his hand in a signal to his enforcers.

Before they can act, I press the transmitter in my pocket. “Now.”

The word barely leaves my lips when the world erupts into chaos. The crack of sniper fire from the upper levels of the distillery drops two of Morozov's enforcers instantly. Smoke grenades hiss from hidden positions, filling the space with thick, disorienting clouds. My enforcers emerge from their concealed locations, moving with efficiency.

Morozov's face contorts with rage as he realizes the trap has been set. “Kill him!” he roars, drawing his own weapon as his remaining enforcers open fire.

I was already moving, diving behind a massive, rusted vat as bullets ping off metal around me. Drawing my gun, I return fire, catching one of Morozov's lieutenants in the shoulder and spinning him around.

Through the chaos of gunfire and smoke, I catch glimpses of the battle unfolding around me. The Butcher has taken up a defensive position behind a concrete pillar, his massive frame partly exposed as he fires methodically at my advancing enforcers. To my left, Viktor and two others are engaged in a firefight with Morozov's rear guard.

“East exit secured,” crackles a voice in my earpiece. “No one gets out that way.”

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