Page 87 of Tattooed Vow

I don’t sit.

The door opens again, and a man in a cheap suit steps in with a file folder in his hand. He looks like someone's overworked accountant, not a federal prosecutor. Thinning brown hair, wire-rimmed glasses, a tie that has seen better days. But his eyes are sharp and calculating.

He sits across from me and opens the folder with theatrical calm. “Dimitri Popov. Quite the resume.”

I meet his gaze without flinching, burying every emotion behind a practiced mask. This life has taught me that showing weakness is an invitation to attack. Despite the uncomfortable pull of my arms behind my back, I straighten my shoulders.

“Want to know what we have?”

He starts laying out photos, surveillance stills, timestamps, names, and transcripts of wiretaps I know have been manipulated. My stomach churns with each new piece of“evidence,” recognizing the meticulous planning behind the setup. This has been in the making for months.

Then, he places a flash drive in the center of the table.

“This contains audio of you planning a hit on a federal witness.”

“That recording is fake,” I say flatly, though inside my mind is racing. Which conversation did they doctor? Which of our secure channels has been compromised?

He raises a brow. “You sure about that? Because the voice analysis came back. It's a 97% match.”

Technology has come a long way. If they have enough samples of my voice, a skilled technician can create something convincing.

I lean forward, voice low. “You're being played.”

He chuckles, leans back, and folds his arms. “You think this is new? That you're the first mobster we've come for?”

“No,” I reply. “But you'll be the first to fail.”

The words come out with more conviction than I feel. In truth, a creeping fear is beginning to take hold. Not for myself. I've survived worse. But for Sandy and what this will do to her, to the life we are building.

He rises sharply, the folder snapping shut in his hands. “Save it for court.”

Three hours later, they finally let Aleksandr in, with our lawyer, Peter Kreshnov, trailing close behind. The second Aleksandr steps into the room, I feel the shift in the air. His eyes burn with barely restrained fury.

“It's Morozov,” I hiss before they even sit, the name like poison on my tongue.

Peter nods grimly. “We already figured as much. The recordings were traced to a secure channel that doesn't even exist in your communications log.”

“Witnesses?”

“All new identities. Protected status. They'll never testify. They don't have to. The evidence was designed for pretrial detention. They want to keep you locked up, not convicted.”

The strategy becomes clear. This isn’t about justice. It’s about removing me from play, isolating our organization, and creating vulnerability. A chess move not an endgame.

I look at Aleksandr, unable to keep the concern from my voice. “Sandy?”

His expression softens, but the fire in his eyes doesn’t fade. “She's with Talia. Safe, but shaken.”

A fierce and immediate protective instinct surges through me. The thought of her being afraid, of seeing me taken like that burns hotter than any set of cuffs ever could. And now here I am, unable to hold her, to ease her fears.

“She wanted to come,” Aleksandr continues, his voice lower. “Begged to see you. I told her it wasn't safe yet, not until we know more.”

The image of Sandy pleading to see me tightens my throat. “She's strong,” I manage, “stronger than she knows.”

“She'll be okay,” Aleksandr adds. “But you need to focus.”

He’s right. Emotion is a luxury I can’t afford right now.

“Morozov is trying to isolate us,” I growl. “Take out the inner circle without firing a shot.”

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