Page 2 of Tattooed Heart

He coughs, bloody spit painting my collarbone. His eyes dart around, looking for backup that isn't coming. Not yet, anyway.

“Morozov,” he rasps. “Says you don't make it out.”

My vision narrows. The name twists like a knife in my gut.

“Wrong answer,” I hiss.

I let go just enough to let him fall. He drops, gasping. I kick the blade out of reach and step back, hands raised as the sirens blare and guards storm in. The yard erupts into chaos. Inmates are shouting, guards bark orders, and the metallic taste of violence hangs in the air.

Jensen is first.

“On the ground! Now!” he bellows.

I comply slowly, putting my hands behind my head and knees on the concrete.

Two guards drag the attacker away. Blood pools behind him like a signature. He won't be the last. Morozov is nothing if not persistent.

I'm hauled to my feet. No cuffs this time, just eyes. Lots of them watching and calculating. The inmates size me up with new interest. Some with respect, others with malice. I've just painted a target on my back, but it was already there. Now, at least, it's visible.

In the infirmary, the doctor stitches the cut on my cheek with seven stitches. I don't flinch. Pain is just another language I speak fluently. The doctor, a tired-looking woman with kind eyes, works in silence. She's seen it all before.

“Hold still,” she says, tying off the last stitch. “Unless you want another scar.”

“One more won't matter,” I mutter. My body is a map of old wounds and narrow escapes. Each one is a story Sandy traces with her fingertips in the dark.

Sandy.The thought of her sends a sharp pain through my chest. I remember the first time I saw her standing in Aleksandr’s office, with her spine straight as steel, refusing to back down even when surrounded by men who killed for a living. Her dark blue eyes had locked with mine across the room, challenging, unafraid, and something shifted in the universe.

I'd killed men, moved millions in illicit goods, and survived things that should have broken me, but nothing prepared me for her. It was how she looked at me as if the monster had never existed and only the man remained. It was how she ranher fingers over knuckles hardened by violence and whispered, “These hands can be gentle, too.” And somehow, with her, they are. She brought out a softness I didn’t believe I was capable of, like water from a stone.

Every night since the arrest, I’ve dreamed of her hair fanning across my pillow like molten silk catching fire in the sunlight. The scent of her skin. The sound of her laugh and how she really listens when I speak. No one has ever truly listened to me before her. No one has ever made me feel worthy of being heard.

The doctor finishes and steps back. “You should try to stay out of trouble.”

I almost smile. Almost. “Trouble finds me.”

“It always does with you Russians,” she mumbles, but there's no heat in it, just resignation.

I'm escorted back to my cell. Solitary, they call it, and it's for my protection. But I know better. They keep me isolated and vulnerable, which makes me easier to reach.

Hours later, I sit in the corner, staring at the wall. The cell is five by seven feet. I've counted every crack in the concrete and every water stain on the ceiling.

I think about the charges against me. Attempted murder of a federal witness, obstruction of justice, racketeering. All of it is bullshit and fabricated. The audio they claim to have of me ordering a hit is a clever fake. Morozov has resources; I'll give him that. And connections in places that should be untouchable.

But so does Aleksandr. He isn’t just thepakhanof the Avilov Bratva anymore. He’s become a force in New York, a power that moves in the shadows between legitimate business and theold world we come from. He won’t let this stand. Not when it’s blood. Not when it’s family.

Family.The word lodges deep in my chest. Sandy is carrying my child, a secret she whispered to me just weeks before the arrest. A new life. A chance at something I never believed I could have. A future that doesn’t end in blood and bullets.

Morozov wants me dead. Not later. Not at trial. Now. And he nearly got what he wanted.

I press the buzzer. After a long pause, Jensen's voice crackles through the intercom.

“What?”

“I need to send a message.”

Silence. Then, “To who?”

“Aleksandr Avilov.”

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