Page 25 of Tattooed Heart

I giggle at just the right moment, letting my fingers graze his forearm. My eyes widen like he just told me a secret I can’t wait to write about. Inside, my stomach churns with disgust, but my face remains a perfect mask of interest, one that is flattered and impressed.

He basks in it like a reptile seeking the sun, his ego growing with each carefully placed compliment and each fawning question. And then he gives me everything.

He tells me Petrov brought him a “mess to clean up,” and Kiril only needed a little “incentive” to cooperate. He brags about manipulating evidence, about the “miraculously discovered” shell casings that just happened to match a gun Dimitri hadnever even seen. And the cherry on top was a witness who never existed, just a name and a face conjured from thin air to make the whole setup stick.

Every word is filth. Every sentence is a knife to the gut. Each confession pushes me closer to the edge of my control, testing the limits of my performance.

But I don’t flinch. I smile like it is the most fascinating thing I've ever heard, even as revulsion curls in my stomach and my hands are cold with fury. I think of Dimitri, alone in a cell, paying for crimes these men invented over drinks just like these.

“That's incredible,” I breathe, letting admiration color my tone. “The way you handled all that...most cops wouldn't have the courage.”

He preens under the praise, draining his glass and signaling for another. “That's the difference between me and the rest of them,” he slurs, tapping his temple with unsteady fingers. “I see the bigger picture.”

The bigger picture. As if framing an innocent man is some type of visionary act. As if destroying our lives is an accomplishment to celebrate.

The baby kicks again, harder this time. A fierce little reminder of who is counting on me to deliver justice.

Russo waves the bartender down, eager to keep talking. Eager to further incriminate himself to a pretty face that seems to hang on his every word.

But I’m done listening. I have what I need. Every damning word is captured, and every confession is recorded in crisp digitalclarity. Enough to burn his career to the ground. Enough to start unraveling the web they spun around Dimitri.

I stand before the next round hits the table. “Thank you, Detective,” I say sweetly, slipping my coat back on. “You've been...illuminating.”

His brow furrows, confusion cutting through the alcoholic fog. “Wait, I thought we?—”

But I’m already gone, heels clicking over cracked tile, breath caught between a sob and a scream. I push through the door into the night air, which feels impossibly clean after the suffocating closeness of his presence.

Outside, I press my back against the wall and clutch my bag as if it holds a loaded gun. I can’t believe it. The recording is enough to blow Russo wide open. To dismantle the lie they wrapped around Dimitri's name like a chain.

I hail a cab, giving an address three blocks from the estate. I don’t want to lead anyone directly to the door. As the city rushes past in a smear of lights and shifting shadows, I finally exhale, and that's when it hits me. What just happened and what I just did. I risked everything. My safety. My baby. But I won the gamble.

The proof is tucked against my heart, beating in time with it. Evidence that can free Dimitri. Evidence that can bring him home to me. To us.

My hands tremble as I cradle my stomach, feeling the small life inside responding to my touch.

But my resolve? It’s rock solid.

I'm coming for you, Dimitri. And this time, I'm not leaving without you.

9

SANDY

I clutch my purse to my chest, the recorder still warm from being pressed against my skin for hours. Outside, the estate looms like a fortress. A sprawling monument to power and protection that has been my home for these past brutal months. Somehow, it looks different tonight, more imposing than before.

I barely wait for the car to stop before throwing open the door, ignoring the driver's protests. My heels click on the concrete as I race down the street and up the driveway. I rush toward the front entrance, my pulse hammering. Every second feels like wasted time. Every breath without Dimitri is a moment stolen from us.

The grand doors open before I reach them. Aleksandr stands on the threshold, his massive frame blocking the light from inside. Even in the darkness, his eyes gleam like polished steel. Calculating, cold, yet burning with something that might have been pride if it wasn't so laced with fury.

“You're reckless,” he growls, his voice low. Aleksandr never needs to raise his voice to command attention. The quieter he speaks, the more dangerous he becomes.

“I got it,” I reply, brushing past him into the foyer, the scent of my perfume trailing behind me. I pull the auburn wig, yanking it free, and my red hair falls loose in a tangled mess that feels more authentic than anything I've worn or said for hours.

“And put yourself in danger in the process.” He shuts the door with a decisive click that echoes through the marble entryway. The sound is like a judgment passing.

I turn to face him, chin raised despite the exhaustion seeping into my bones. “Dimitri would have done the same for me.”

“Dimitri,” Aleksandr says slowly, each syllable punctuated, “is trained to handle men like Russo.Youare not.”

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