Page 83 of Tattooed Vow

SANDY

The sunlight peeks through the heavy drapes of the bedroom. I stir awake, stretching lazily, but the absence of warmth beside me jolts me fully into consciousness. Dimitri is gone. My heart sinks a little. It had become a comforting routine to wake up beside him, his strong arms wrapped protectively around my waist, his breath warm against my neck.

I push the covers aside and slip out of bed, my bare feet meeting the cool marble floor. The transition from the warm sheets to the cold surface sends a shiver up my spine. As I pad toward the door, I can’t shake the feeling of unease that has settled in the pit of my stomach. It has been two weeks since Morozov made an attempt on my life, and his shadow looms larger than ever, hanging over us like a storm cloud that refuses to dissipate.

I catch my reflection in the ornate mirror across from the bed. Dark circles have become a permanent fixture beneath my eyes. A testament to restless nights filled with dreams of blood and gunfire. My hand trembles slightly as I push a strand of hair behind my ear. Is this what my life is now? A constant stateof vigilance, of looking over my shoulder, waiting for the next attack?

I descend the grand staircase, my footsteps echoing softly in the vast space. The mansion is quiet, the usual hustle and bustle of the household muted in the early morning hours. Crystal chandeliers hang overhead, reflecting the morning light and scattering rainbow prisms across the walls. I never imagined living in such opulence. It’s a far cry from my modest apartment in the city. But this has been “home” since this nightmare began.

A heaviness settles in my chest as I descend each step. Everything about this place speaks of wealth, power, influence, and the dangerous world I stumbled into by blindly following my heart. The gilded picture frames holding portraits of stern-faced Avilov ancestors seem to watch me with judgment in their painted eyes. Do they see me as an intruder? A vulnerability in the fortress the family has built over generations?

“Good morning, Miss Sandy,” a housekeeper greets me as I reach the ground floor. Her name is Sylvia, a kind woman with silver-streaked hair and a gentle smile that warms my heart. She has been with the Avilov family for decades, her loyalty unwavering through the years of power struggles and danger.

“Good morning, Sylvia,” I reply, smiling despite my gnawing worry. “Have you seen Dimitri?”

She nods, smoothing her crisp white apron over her uniform. “He left early with Mr. Avilov. They had some matters to attend to.” Her eyes glitter with quiet wisdom, born from witnessing more than most. She's seen enough of the family's dealings to grasp exactly what “matters” might mean.

Something in her expression, a hint of concern quickly masked, makes my stomach clench. Is there something she isn’t telling me? Does she know more than she is letting on?

“Did he say when he'll be back?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual, though I suspect she can sense my anxiety. My fingers twist nervously at the hem of my sleeping shirt—one of Dimitri's. The fabric is soft from countless washes and carries the faint scent of his cologne.

“No, but he asked me to tell you not to worry.” She pats my arm gently, her touch maternal and comforting.

I nod, trying to suppress the flutter of anxiety that takes hold of my chest. Dimitri's responsibilities to the Bratva are often put before everything else, even me. But it doesn’t make the waiting any easier, the constant fear that each goodbye might be our last. That familiar ache of helplessness spreads through me. What good is falling in love with a man whose life is perpetually in danger?

“Thank you, Sylvia,” I reply, squeezing her hand in gratitude.

I head toward the kitchen, the rich aroma of brewing coffee wafting through the air. The hallways are adorned with exquisite artwork, priceless vases, and antique furniture. Yet despite the beauty surrounding me, I can’t help but wonder about the price paid for such luxury.

Every beautiful thing in this house has a cost, and it’s more than just money, and blood. The gravity of that knowledge settles over me as I move through the corridors, my fingers trailing absently along the cool marble walls. How many lives have been sacrificed for this empire? How many families were torn apart? And now, I’m carrying the next generation of this legacy withinme. The thought sends a chill through me despite the morning warmth.

Talia is already at the table with a mug of coffee cradled in her hands. A loose strand of her silky hair curves across her cheek as she scans the newspaper. When she looks up and sees me, her face brightens with a wide grin that immediately lightens my mood.

“Morning, sunshine! Come sit with me,” she says, patting the seat beside her.

“Just what I need,” I murmur, sinking into the wooden chair. The kitchen is warm and welcoming, bathed in morning light and filled with the comforting scent of fresh pastries. My shoulders relax slightly as the tension of waking up alone eases.

Abram, the elderly house manager who has served the family for over thirty years, smiles at me from his position by the stove. His hands, gnarled with age but still precise in their movements, work deftly as he prepares breakfast. There is something soothing about watching him work. The careful, practiced movements and the quiet humming under his breath are a reminder that even in this world of uncertainty, some rituals remain unchanged.

Abram pours a steaming cup of coffee with his usual quiet grace, his grandfatherly eyes twinkling with a knowing gleam. “You're looking well. How's the little one?”

I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the heat settle into my fingers as the rich aroma rises to meet me, anchoring me in the moment. “Growing fast, I think. Today marks eleven weeks.”

My voice catches slightly. Eleven weeks of this new life growing inside me, eleven weeks of dreams and fears intertwined. Asurge of fierce protectiveness washes over me, overwhelming in its intensity.

“Such a blessing,” he says with genuine warmth, setting down a plate of golden pastries between Talia and me.

I find myself wondering about Dimitri's childhood. Has he ever known mornings like this? Quiet and warm with his mother and siblings gathered around the table? I never met his mother. She passed long before I came into his life. But I heard stories of her strength, fierce loyalty, and steady presence as her husband and sons built their empire in the shadows.

“Do you think Dimitri's mother would have approved of me?” I ask Talia, voicing a doubt that has lingered in my mind.

Talia laughs, light and genuine. “Where did that come from? She would've adored you, you know. A woman who stands her ground and loves fiercely. That's exactly what she would've wanted for Dimitri.”

Her words warm me, chasing away some of the doubt that has settled in my bones.

“How are you feeling? Any morning sickness?” she continues, her eyes drifting briefly to my still-small belly.

“Just a little nausea here and there, but nothing I can't handle.” I pause, my thoughts drifting to Dimitri again and the empty bed I woke up in. “I wish he were here with me.” The admission emerges as barely more than a whisper, a confession of my deepest fear, facing this journey alone.

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