Page 49 of Tattooed Heart

Overhead, a single bright light illuminates every detail of his face. The walls are bare concrete, the air still and crisp.

I lean against the far wall, arms crossed over my chest, watching his eyes flutter open. The moment awareness returns is always fascinating to observe. It begins with brief confusion, followed by a sudden, crushing realization of the situation. Fear blooms across Petrov’s features with satisfying speed.

“Good evening,” Aleksandr greets, circling the chair with measured steps. He removed his jacket, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to reveal powerful forearms. His voice carries the polite tone of a host greeting a dinner guest, making the situation all the more unnerving. “I assume you are wondering where you are.”

Petrov squirms against his restraints, the gag muffling his panicked questions. Lev steps forward and rips the cloth away with unnecessary force. Petrov coughs violently, his breath coming in ragged gasps, panic visibly taking hold of him.

“You have made a grave mistake,” he rasps, attempting to sound confident despite his trembling voice. “You cannot touch me. I am protected.”

“Protected?” I echo, pushing myself away from the wall and stepping into the pool of light. “By whom? Morozov?”

His mouth snaps shut, sweat beading on his forehead.

“You framed me,” I continue, controlling my voice. “You sold your soul to a man with none of his own. I want names. Dates. Everything.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Petrov pleads, his eyes darting between me and Aleksandr. “He would have killed me.”

I crouch in front of him, bringing our faces level, close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath mingling with the acrid scent of fear.

“Start talking,” I say quietly, “or you will wish he had.”

Aleksandr moves to stand behind me, adding to the psychological pressure. My brother has long perfected the art of silent intimidation. He can fill a room with menace without speaking a single word. His blue eyes hold the cold detachment of a man deciding whether someone will live to see the sunrise.

Petrov breaks quicker than I had anticipated. Thirty minutes later, we have enough information to destroy Russo and dismantle half of Morozov's operation. Petrov spilled everything. The doctored recordings, the falsified testimony, the bank accounts in offshore havens, the cash delivered in unmarked envelopes, and the names of corrupt officials on Morozov's payroll.

“You provided Russo with the falsified files?” Aleksandr asks, his voice deceptively casual as he places a silver lighter on the metal table beside various implements none of us have yet needed to use.

“Yes,” Petrov nods frantically. “But it was Morozov’s idea. I had to do it. I had no choice!”

Aleksandr smiles, a cold, predatory expression that fails to reach his eyes. “Morozov is about to discover what it feels like to fall from a great height.”

Lev and Yuri exchange glances across the room. Morozov's days are clearly numbered.

But the next revelation from Petrov turns my blood to ice.

“There is something else,” he whispers, his gaze shifting toward me. “Something you should know. Morozov...he was furious when you were released. Your imprisonment was supposed to be permanent. You were meant to die there, Dimitri. When the charges failed to hold and you walked free, he modified his plan.”

“What plan?” My voice sounds foreign, even to my own ears.

Petrov hesitates, looking as though he is calculating whether this information might somehow save him. Aleksandr steps forward and places a firm hand on Petrov's shoulder, fingers digging into pressure points that make the man wince in pain.

“My brother asked you a question,” Aleksandr says softly. “It would be impolite not to answer.”

Then, in one desperate breath, Petrov says, “He is going after your child.”

The room goes completely still.

“Explain yourself,” I roar.

“Morozov wants to make you suffer. He knows about your woman. About the baby. He has placed people to watch her movements. The plan is to cause her to lose the child. Then he will have her killed. Very slowly.”

The silence that follows seems endless. My hands curl into fists so tight I can feel my nails cutting into my palms. I can’t breathe properly, and I’m unable to move. Sandy's face fills my mind. Her fiery hair, her warm smile, and the beautiful curve of her stomach where our child is growing.

For the first time in years, I see something like genuine concern flash across my brother's typically impassive features.

Lev curses loudly, turning away and dragging a hand through his hair in agitation.

I step forward and seize Petrov by the throat, my fingers pressing into his windpipe with enough force to make his eyes bulge.

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