Page 38 of Tattooed Heart

“Lev actually let you do the pickup?” I quip. The words feel strange in my mouth, no longer confined to the clipped responses necessary for survival.

Aleksandr smirks and hands me a cup of coffee. “He didn't argue.”

Of course, Lev didn’t. Aleksandr Avilov doesn’t give people the opportunity to argue. Not when it comes to matters of family. I take the coffee with a weary exhale, the heat bleeding into my fingers. It’s the first normal thing I did in weeks. I inhale the rich aroma, letting it ground me. Prison coffee is thin and bitter. More water than anything resembling actual coffee. This is thick and strong, exactly how I like it.

“You look like shit,” he says, tilting his head.

“Better than I felt yesterday,” I answer, sipping the coffee. It tastes like pure bliss, and I drink every drop. The caffeine hits my system like electricity, sharpening my senses even further.

Aleksandr falls into step beside me as we get into the SUV. Yuri is in the driver's seat, eyes on the rearview mirror like always. He nods to me, a silent welcome back. Ivan is in the passenger seat. Their presence means Aleksandr wasn’t taking any chances with this pickup.

The SUV rolls forward, and I sink back into the seat, letting the city blur past the windows. Everything looks sharper andbrighter. After weeks of gray walls and harsh fluorescent lighting, the colors seem more vivid. The streets seem wider, and the buildings taller. It is as if my brain is trying to absorb every detail at once, overcompensating for the sensory deprivation of prison.

People walk along the sidewalks, going about their daily lives. A woman pushes a stroller. A businessman argues on his phone. A group of teenagers laugh outside a convenience store. Normal people living normal lives, completely unaware of the power struggles and violence that shape the underworld just beneath the surface of their city.

But none of it matters until I see Sandy.

“Where is she?” I ask, my voice low but edged with urgency.

Aleksandr glances at me. “At the estate. She hasn't stopped working on your case. The judge couldn’t deny the motion after what she found in the files.”

“What files?” I question, my eyebrows snapping together.

Aleksandr pulls out his phone, scrolls briefly, and hands it to me. “Sandy found proof that a witness was paid off. She spotted a transfer Petrov routed through a logistics shell tied to a holding company in Belize. Lev did more digging and found another false witness, plus three separate accounts linked to Judge Hargrove, who presided over your case. He traced them back to the shell companies owned by Morozov.”

Morozov. Our most dangerous rival has reached further than I thought. Buying a federal judge is no small feat, even for someone with his resources.

“And the witnesses?” I ask, scrolling through the transaction records Sandy had uncovered.

“They recanted after Lev found their families. Turns out their testimony was motivated by very specific threats against their children.” Aleksandr's voice remains calm, but I can hear the underlying steel. Threatening children is beyond even our code.

I hand the phone back and process this information. Sandy didn’t just find evidence. She helped Aleksandr and Lev dismantle an entire conspiracy piece by piece. And she did it while pregnant with our child. While carrying the heir to everything I’ve built over the last two decades. Part of me admires the hell out of her for what she did. The other part wants to shake her for putting herself in danger while I was stuck behind bars, powerless to protect her.

The estate comes into view faster than expected, my mind too tangled to notice the miles slipping by. We turn off the main road and wind through the trees that line the estate like a fortress. Familiar stone walls rise in the distance, guarding the estate and the lives within it.

Two hundred acres of privacy and security, designed to be an impenetrable stronghold and a place where the Avilov family can call home. Aleksandr offered me a place here before my arrest, knowing my property would be too exposed after this war with Morozov.

I see Sandy as the gates swing open, and the car stops in the circular driveway. She is standing on the front steps, one hand on the wrought iron railing, the other resting against the gentle swell of her stomach. Her fire-red hair is loose and windblown, her blue eyes intense with anticipation.

She looks stronger yet more vulnerable than the last time I saw her. There is a new hardness in her posture and a vigilance from months of looking over her shoulder. But there is also softness, and a glow that pregnancy has given her. My heart hammers against my ribs like it’s trying to break free and reach her faster than my body can move.

She doesn’t wait. Sandy walks toward me with purpose in every step, her eyes locking on mine like she doesn’t believe it until she sees it herself. Despite being five months pregnant, she moves with the same ease and grace she has always had. Nothing slows her down. Not pregnancy. Not danger. Not the fact that I was incarcerated with no guarantee of release.

I step out of the car just as she reaches me. We look at each other as if trying to remember every line, every scar, every second lost to fear and silence. The depth of emotion in her eyes nearly brings me to my knees. Love, relief, exhaustion, and determination are all mixed together in a gaze that sees through every wall I put up.

Then she moves. She wraps her arms around me and holds on like she is trying to piece me back together from the outside in. I bury my face in her hair. She smells like safety, honey, and the echo of home.

Her voice cracks against my chest. “You're here.”

“I'm here,” I reply, my voice unsteady for the first time in years. My hands tremble slightly as I hold her, my freedom finally hitting me full force.I’m holding her, and I’m going to see my child born.The future I started to believe was lost forever is suddenly mine again.

She pulls back just far enough to look up at me, her fingers still gripping the front of my shirt. “I didn't stop, Dimitri. I couldn't.”

“I know,” I whisper, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. Her skin is warm beneath my fingers, so different from the cold steel and concrete that surrounded me for weeks. “I saw the files.”

Her eyes well, but she doesn’t cry. She carried both of us while I was gone, and I will spend the rest of my life making sure she never carries anything alone again.

“Come inside,” she hums, sliding her hand into mine. Her grip is firm, her fingers intertwining with mine like puzzle pieces.

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