Page 26 of Tattooed Heart

The baby kicks defiantly as if rejecting the idea of being underestimated. I place a hand over the small bump, drawing strength from the life within. “And yet I'm the one with the evidence, aren't I?”

His eyes narrow, and his back teeth grind together. “Peter's waiting in the office. Lev is on his way.”

In Aleksandr's world, those simple words speak volumes. Peter Kreshnov, the Avilov family's attorney, doesn’t just “wait” for anyone. And Lev being summoned means my evidence might actually be worth something.

Suddenly, too tired for further argument, I nod and follow Aleksandr down the grand hallway. The estate has been in the Avilov family for generations, and every inch of it has been meticulously maintained to showcase their wealth and power. Crystal chandeliers hang from coffered ceilings, Persian rugs muffle our footsteps, and priceless art adorns walls that have witnessed decades of secrets. It feels less like a home and more like a war room tonight.

The office door is ajar, warm light spilling into the corridor. Inside, Peter sits behind Aleksandr's massive desk, papers spread before him like a general mapping a battle plan. His wire-rimmed glasses reflect the light as he looks up, making his eyes unreadable.

“Sandy,” he greets with a nod, his voice carrying the faint accent of his native Moscow despite decades in America. “I hear you have something for us.”

I don’t waste time with pleasantries. My fingers tremble slightly as I reach into my purse, pulling out the small recorder. It looks so innocent, so ordinary for something that holds the key to Dimitri's freedom.

“Russo confessed,” I state, placing the recorder on the desk. “To everything.”

Peter raises an eyebrow, the most emotion he typically allows himself to display. He picks up the device and turns it over as if he were measuring more than just plastic and circuitry.

“And how did you acquire this confession?” he asks, his gaze sharp despite his calm tone.

“She played the seductress,” Aleksandr answers for me, pouring himself a generous measure of whiskey from the crystal decanter near the window. “Complete with disguise.”

I shoot him a glare. “I did what was necessary.”

“You did what was foolish,” he corrects, but there is no real heat behind the words. Just the tired exasperation of a man who’s seen too many people he cares about put themselves at risk.

“Play it,” I insist, ignoring the rebuke. “Just play it.”

Peter presses the button without further comment. Russo's slurred voice fills the room, bouncing off mahogany panels and leather-bound books. Each word is a nail in his coffin. Each boasts another brick in the foundation of Dimitri's freedom.

“...the shell casings? Please. Those were from a range I practice at. Had 'em for weeks waiting for the right moment...”

“...witness never existed. Just needed a name. Someone who'd never come forward...”

“...Petrov said Morozov wanted it done clean. No loose ends. But you know what? I added those extra charges because I wanted that bastard Popov to rot...”

My stomach churns as I hear it again, the casual cruelty with which these men had torn apart our lives. The baby kicks, stronger this time.

When the recording finally ends, the office falls into heavy silence. Aleksandr stands at the window, his broad back to us, gazing out into the darkness beyond the glass. Peter removes his glasses, polishing them methodically with a handkerchief pulled from his breast pocket.

“Well?” I demand, unable to bear the suspense a moment longer. “It's enough, isn't it? We can get Dimitri out now?”

Peter sighs, replacing his glasses carefully. “It's good,” he admits. “Better than I expected.”

Hope blooms in my chest, wild and fierce. “Then?—”

“But not good enough.” He cuts me off with a raised hand. “Not on its own.”

The hope withers as quickly as it had grown. “What are you talking about? He confessed! To tampering with evidence, to fabricating witnesses?—”

“Without context, without corroboration, a drunk man's boasts to a pretty face could be dismissed as exactly that—drunken boasting.” Peter's tone is clinical, devoid of the emotion surging through me. “Especially when the judge is on Morozov's payroll.”

“Aleksandr,” I turn to him, desperation cracking my voice. “You heard him. You know what this means.”

Aleksandr turns from the window, his expression blank. “It means we're close,” he replies. “But Peter's right. The judge will claim it's inadmissible. Russo will claim he was drunk, playing a role to impress a woman. Without something concrete to back it up?—”

“Like Petrov?” I cut in. “Like photos of him meeting with Isaak Kiril? Exchanging money and documents?” I reach into my bag again, pulling out the folder of photos. “Like this?”

I spread the photos across the desk, watching both men's expressions shift subtly. Aleksandr's eyes narrow, going from steel to obsidian in an instant. Peter leans forward, fingers trailing over the images with a lawyer's calculated interest.

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