Page 1 of Tattooed Heart

1

DIMITRI

The fifth day is always the hardest. That's what they say. Something about how the shock wears off and the crushing reality of it all settles into your bones. I wouldn't know if that's true for most men. But for me, it's the truth.

Five days locked behind steel and stone. Five days of recycled air, the stink of sweat and old blood, of silence, punctuated by shouting and metal clanging in the distance. Five days of being watched by guards, by inmates, by eyes I can't always see but feel crawling across my skin.

But it's not the confinement that cuts deepest. It's her.

Sandy.

She stood before me last night, hands trembling even though she tried to hide it. Her voice was strong, though I saw the tears threatening to spill. She looked at me like she wanted to kill whoever dared to do this to me. And then she said,“You better come back to me.”

I didn't know how badly I needed to hear those words until she said them.

The cot creaks beneath me as I sit up, muscles tight and coiled. The fluorescent lights overhead hum like an angry insect. I haven't slept. Not really. Not since the arrest. Not since the cell door slammed shut, but I know exactly what this is.

Andrei Morozov doesn’t want me silenced. He wants me erased.

I run my fingers along the cold concrete wall, tracing invisible patterns. In Russia, prison is different. Perhaps more brutal, but also more honest. Here, they dress it up with words like “correctional facility” and “rehabilitation,” but prison is prison. A cage is a cage, and a man in a cage is always a target.

I think of my brother, Aleksandr. By now, he's working every connection, calling in every favor. Thepakhanof the Avilov Bratva doesn't let family languish behind bars. But even his reach has limits. Especially since Morozov has been planning this for months.

Morozov wants revenge for his brother, Sergei, who died at my hand in Russia years ago. It was a necessary and justified death. But blood demands blood. This is the old way. The Bratva way.

I stand, stretching slowly. My ribs ache from the scuffle on day three. An inmate named Lewis thought he could earn a favor by taking a swing at me. He's still breathing, but he won't try again. I made sure of that. The guards intervened too late to save his pride, too early to let me finish what he started.

The cell door slides open. It's yard time. The same schedule every morning keeps the routine predictable and the prey comfortable.

“Popov,” the guard barks, “move it.”

I step out into the corridor, flanked by two guards. One of them, Jensen, gives me a look. Not friendly but not hostile. Just watchful. He's been here long enough to know when something's brewing. And something is definitely brewing.

“Try not to break anything today, Popov,” he mutters.

I don't respond. There's no point. Words in here are currency or curses. And I'm not here to waste either.

The yard is a cracked concrete slab surrounded by chain-link fences and razor wire. Inmates scatter in clumps—smokers, lifers, predators, and ghosts. The sky overhead is a pale shade of blue that doesn't feel real. Nothing here feels real.

I scan the yard, a habit born from years of surviving in places where letting your guard down means death. The Bratva taught me to always look for threats, but Otets taught me to look for opportunities. Right now, I need both.

I spot the guy near the west wall. He's pretending not to watch me, but he's doing a shit job of it. Tattoo on his neck—not Russian work. It’s prison ink, crude but meaningful. Left arm sleeved. He wasn't here yesterday. New transfer, they'd say. But I know better. Morozov's reach extends beyond these walls.

I clock him, then turn away. Let him think I haven't noticed.

I walk slowly, my shoulders loose, breathing steadily. I want them to think I'm relaxed and believe I don't see it coming. The yard is a stage, and everyone is focused on the new performance.

Because I do see it coming. I feel it in the air. That electric snap that happens just before a storm hits. Like your body, the pull in your gut knows something your brain hasn't caught up to yet. I've felt it before in Moscow, in Prague, in that warehouse inJersey where my enemies thought they could take me. None of them walked away.

He makes his move.

I pivot, ducking just as the glint of a makeshift blade slices through the air where my throat had been. The edge grazes my cheek. Blood warms my skin, but adrenaline keeps the pain at bay. Time slows down, as it always does, in moments like this.

He lunges again.

This time, I grab his wrist, twist, and slam my elbow into his face. Bone cracks. He snarls and slashes wildly. I spin him, driving him back against the concrete wall. My forearm pins his throat. The shiv clatters to the ground.

“Who sent you?” I growl. I already know, but I need to hear it.

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