Page 18 of Tattooed Heart

Through the lens, I catch details my eyes miss. The thick envelope Petrov passes to Kiril, the casual way Kiril tucks it inside his jacket, the handshake that lingers too long, the wary glances they throw around the parking lot like two predators making sure they aren’t observed.

There’s a fresh cigarette for each of them, the smoke curling up into the night air like specters. They talk for nearly twenty minutes, heads bent close. I capture it all, finger pressing the shutter button repeatedly, collecting evidence with each click.

They don’t hide. They don’t care who sees. Confidence like that only comes from believing you’re untouchable.

But as I snap one more shot of Petrov handing Kiril a slim black envelope, Kiril's gaze swings right to me.

Panic explodes in my chest. I drop the camera and duck, my heart slamming against my ribs so hard I’m afraid it might give me away. I hold my breath and crouch below the dash, every muscle trembling like I'm wired too tight.

Did he see me? Or did he just sense someone watching? I press my hand to my mouth, stifling the ragged sound of my breathing. The baby kicks violently, responding to the surge of adrenaline flooding my system.

“It's okay,” I whisper, one hand on my stomach. “We're okay.”

But are we?My mind races through worst-case scenarios. Kiril coming over and finding me. Recognizing me as Dimitri's girlfriend. Doing something to silence me and make me disappear. The thought sends chills down my spine.

Seconds pass. Maybe minutes. I don’t dare peek. The sound of tires screeching echoes down the alley. I risk a glance, and Kiril's car is gone. Petrov's, too.

They didn’t see me. But Kiril felt something. I knew that look. It’s a predator sensing motion in the brush.

I slump back against the seat, my breath catching in my throat. My phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s Talia. Three missed calls and a flurry of texts.

Where are you?

Sandy, please tell me you didn't go out alone.

I'm calling Lev if you don't answer in five minutes.

My fingers tremble as I type a reply.I'm fine. Needed air. Coming home now.

It isn’t the first lie I’ve told my sister, and I hate that it comes so easily now. But it won’t be the last until Dimitri is home, alive and free.

This time, though, the lie comes with something real. Something that matters. I have proof and photos of Petrov meeting with Morozov’s enforcer. It isn’t the smoking gun we need, but it’s a thread. And threads, when pulled with enough pressure, can unravel entire tapestries of deceit.

I start the car with shaky hands, checking the rearview mirror compulsively as I pull away from the curb. Every shadow seems to hold a threat. Every passing vehicle is potentially filled with Morozov's men. The city I once found so charming now feels like a labyrinth of dangers.

The drive back to the estate takes thirty minutes. Thirty minutes of jumping at every honking horn and flash of headlights. When I reach the gates, my shirt is damp despite the cool breeze.

The same guard waves me through, still oblivious to what I've been doing. As I park in the garage, I notice Lev's car is there, too. That's not good. If he’s here, it means Talia called him after all.

I tuck the camera into my bag, take a deep breath, and prepare for the confrontation that awaits me inside. The grand foyer is lit, and voices drift from the study. Talia's is high with worry, and Lev's is deep and measured. I consider sneaking upstairs, but they'll only follow. It's better to face them now.

“There you are.” Talia's voice cuts through the hall as I step inside. She stands at the base of the staircase, arms crossed, face pale with fear and anger. “Do you have any idea?—”

“I'm sorry,” I say, meaning it. Sorry for the worry, if not for the action itself. “I needed to clear my head.”

“Clear your head?” She moves toward me, close enough that I can see tears shimmering in her eyes. “You disappeared without a word! With everything that's happening how could you be so thoughtless?”

Lev appears behind her, his massive frame filling the doorway to the library. His face, usually a mask of calm calculation, shows something I rarely see there. Genuine concern.

“Sandy,” he huffs. “We were worried.”

Guilt slices through me. They're my family, and they’re hurting too. But I can’t tell them what I did until I know what the photos show.

“I'm sorry,” I repeat, gripping my bag tighter. “It won't happen again.”

“Where did you go?” Talia demands, wiping angrily at a tear that escaped. “And don't say ‘for a drive,’ because I know that look. That's the look you always give me when you’re hiding something.”

For a moment, I consider coming clean and showing them the photos, revealing everything. But something holds me back. Maybe instinct, maybe caution. I need to see what I have first to be sure.

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