Page 61 of Tattooed Heart

Two men wait by the open doors. One lights a cigarette with shaking fingers. The other stands tense, hand on his belt as if he is barely holding himself back. Their faces are unfamiliar, but their postures scream danger. These aren’t Morozov's usual thugs. These are desperate men hired for a job they probably don’t fully understand.

I hesitate, every nerve in my body screaming for escape. But I’m outnumbered, unarmed, and pregnant. My options dwindle to a single, terrible choice: comply now to survive later. It is what Dimitri would want me to do. Stay alive at all costs.

The man with the cigarette grabs my arm and shoves me into the van. I land hard on the metal floor, my hip taking the brunt of the impact. I bite back a cry of pain, knowing it will only satisfy them.

“Careful with her!” Elena snaps, her words coming out quickly and angrily. “Mr. Morozov wants her unharmed.”

The man with the cigarette gets in and slams the door, plunging the interior into darkness. He grabs my wrists, binding them roughly with a zip tie that bites into my skin.

“The baby,” I whisper. “Please, not so tight. I'm pregnant.”

The man pauses, his grip loosening slightly. Perhaps it is a twinge of humanity or simply following orders to deliver me intact. Either way, I take advantage of it.

“Thank you,” I murmur, making my voice small and grateful. “How far are we going? I might get sick if it's a long drive.”

“Shut up,” the driver growls. “One more word and I’ll tape your mouth shut.”

I fall silent, cataloging details instead. The van smells of stale cigarettes and a metallic odor. Blood, perhaps. The floor vibrates against my legs as the engine roars to life. I brace myself against the wall as we lurch forward, tires spinning in mud before finding purchase.

The ride is long. My wrists are bound, but they leave my legs free. I count the turns. Memorize the bumps in the road. I willtell Dimitri everything if I survive. Left out of the estate grounds. Right onto what feels like a major road. Then, straight for perhaps twenty minutes. Another right, followed by a series of winding turns that suggest we are heading into the countryside. Away from the city. Away from help.

My thoughts turn to Dimitri. Has he returned to the estate to find me missing? Is he tearing apart the mansion in search of me, or is he still unaware and focused on his mission against the doctor? Or worse, have Morozov’s men succeeded in taking him down? The possibility makes my stomach clench with nausea that has nothing to do with pregnancy.

Time blurs. My body aches from the hard metal floor, each bump in the road sending jolts of pain through my joints. I try to stay alert, to memorize every detail, but exhaustion pulls at me. I lose track of how long we were driving by the time the van finally slows. An hour? Two? The roads became rough, suggesting we are far from the city.

Eventually, the van comes to a stop, and the doors open. I’m yanked out, my legs nearly buckling after so long in one position. The night air hits me with unexpected warmth. We are indoors, I realize. Some type of garage or loading dock, dimly lit and smelling of engine oil and dust.

“Move,” the driver orders, prodding me forward with his gun.

I’m forced through a rusted doorway into an abandoned warehouse that reeks of mildew. The concrete floor is stained with substances I don’t want to identify. Forgotten machinery looms in the darkness like sleeping beasts. Our footsteps echo in the cavernous space, announcing our presence to whoever may be waiting inside.

He leads me down a maze of hallways and narrow stairs to the basement. We finally arrive at a doorway. He pushes me into a small room. The door shuts behind me with a heavy thud. A bulb dangles from the ceiling, swinging slightly with the movement of air, creating unsettling patterns of light and dark across the walls. It exposes a crude cell that fills most of the room. A caged-in corner with thick steel bars, a dirty mattress, and a chain bolted to the wall.

He shoves me into the cell. I back away from the steel bars, refusing to give him the satisfaction of my fear.

Thenhewalks in. Andrei Morozov.

He is taller than I expected, lean but unmistakably strong. Silver streaks thread through his dark hair and neatly trimmed mustache, giving him a deceptive air of refinement. But it is his eyes, cold, dark, and gleaming with triumph, that make my skin crawl as they roam over me. They pause on my belly with a possessive hunger that makes me cringe.

“Welcome Sandy,” he says in flawless English, every syllable laced with venom.

“Nice place you have here,” I reply sarcastically.

He chuckles and motions for his man to leave. When the door clicks shut, he approaches the cage, dragging a chair with him. He sits with the casual ease of a man who owns everything around him, including me.

“You look lovely in your condition,” he purrs, his gaze returning to my stomach. “Motherhood suits you.”

I refuse to engage with his false pleasantries.

“Nothing to say?”

“What do you want from me?” I hiss, knowing the answer but needing to hear him say it.

His smile widens. “I want Dimitri to suffer as I have suffered. I want him to lose everything he cares about, as I lost everything when he murdered my brother and destroyed my operation in Moscow.”

“I am nothing to him,” I lie. “Just a temporary distraction.”

Morozov laughs, the sound bouncing off the concrete walls. “Do not insult my intelligence, Sandy. Dimitri Popov has never taken a woman to a safehouse, let alone two of them. He has never brought a woman to his family estate. And he has never assigned his personal security to protect anyone outside his immediate family.”

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