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DIMITRI

The fifth day is always the hardest. That's what they say. Something about how the shock wears off and the crushing reality of it all settles into your bones. I wouldn't know if that's true for most men. But for me, it's the truth.

Five days locked behind steel and stone. Five days of recycled air, the stink of sweat and old blood, of silence, punctuated by shouting and metal clanging in the distance. Five days of being watched by guards, by inmates, by eyes I can't always see but feel crawling across my skin.

But it's not the confinement that cuts deepest. It's her.

Sandy.

She stood before me last night, hands trembling even though she tried to hide it. Her voice was strong, though I saw the tears threatening to spill. She looked at me like she wanted to kill whoever dared to do this to me. And then she said, “You better come back to me.”

I didn't know how badly I needed to hear those words until she said them.

The cot creaks beneath me as I sit up, muscles tight and coiled. The fluorescent lights overhead hum like an angry insect. I haven't slept. Not really. Not since the arrest. Not since the cell door slammed shut, but I know exactly what this is.

Andrei Morozov doesn’t want me silenced. He wants me erased.

I run my fingers along the cold concrete wall, tracing invisible patterns.

In Russia, prison is different. Perhaps more brutal, but also more honest. Here, they dress it up with words like “correctional facility” and “rehabilitation,” but prison is prison.

A cage is a cage, and a man in a cage is always a target.

I think of my brother, Aleksandr. By now, he's working every connection, calling in every favor. The pakhan of the Avilov Bratva doesn't let family languish behind bars. But even his reach has limits. Especially since Morozov has been planning this for months.

Morozov wants revenge for his brother, Sergei, who died at my hand in Russia years ago. It was a necessary and justified death. But blood demands blood. This is the old way. The Bratva way.

I stand, stretching slowly. My ribs ache from the scuffle on day three.

An inmate named Lewis thought he could earn a favor by taking a swing at me.

He's still breathing, but he won't try again.

I made sure of that. The guards intervened too late to save his pride, too early to let me finish what he started.

The cell door slides open. It's yard time. The same schedule every morning keeps the routine predictable and the prey comfortable.

“Popov,” the guard barks, “move it.”

I step out into the corridor, flanked by two guards. One of them, Jensen, gives me a look. Not friendly but not hostile. Just watchful. He's been here long enough to know when something's brewing. And something is definitely brewing.

“Try not to break anything today, Popov,” he mutters.

I don't respond. There's no point. Words in here are currency or curses. And I'm not here to waste either.

The yard is a cracked concrete slab surrounded by chain-link fences and razor wire. Inmates scatter in clumps—smokers, lifers, predators, and ghosts. The sky overhead is a pale shade of blue that doesn't feel real. Nothing here feels real.

I scan the yard, a habit born from years of surviving in places where letting your guard down means death. The Bratva taught me to always look for threats, but Otets taught me to look for opportunities. Right now, I need both.

I spot the guy near the west wall. He's pretending not to watch me, but he's doing a shit job of it. Tattoo on his neck—not Russian work. It’s prison ink, crude but meaningful.

Left arm sleeved. He wasn't here yesterday.

New transfer, they'd say. But I know better.

Morozov's reach extends beyond these walls.

I clock him, then turn away. Let him think I haven't noticed.

I walk slowly, my shoulders loose, breathing steadily. I want them to think I'm relaxed and believe I don't see it coming. The yard is a stage, and everyone is focused on the new performance.

Because I do see it coming. I feel it in the air.

That electric snap that happens just before a storm hits.

Like your body, the pull in your gut knows something your brain hasn't caught up to yet.

I've felt it before in Moscow, in Prague, in that warehouse in Jersey where my enemies thought they could take me. None of them walked away.

He makes his move.

I pivot, ducking just as the glint of a makeshift blade slices through the air where my throat had been. The edge grazes my cheek. Blood warms my skin, but adrenaline keeps the pain at bay. Time slows down, as it always does, in moments like this.

He lunges again.

This time, I grab his wrist, twist, and slam my elbow into his face. Bone cracks. He snarls and slashes wildly. I spin him, driving him back against the concrete wall. My forearm pins his throat. The shiv clatters to the ground.

“Who sent you?” I growl. I already know, but I need to hear it.

He coughs, bloody spit painting my collarbone. His eyes dart around, looking for backup that isn't coming. Not yet, anyway.

“Morozov,” he rasps. “Says you don't make it out.”

My vision narrows. The name twists like a knife in my gut.

“Wrong answer,” I hiss.

I let go just enough to let him fall. He drops, gasping. I kick the blade out of reach and step back, hands raised as the sirens blare and guards storm in. The yard erupts into chaos. Inmates are shouting, guards bark orders, and the metallic taste of violence hangs in the air.

Jensen is first.

“On the ground! Now!” he bellows.

I comply slowly, putting my hands behind my head and knees on the concrete.

Two guards drag the attacker away. Blood pools behind him like a signature. He won't be the last. Morozov is nothing if not persistent.

I'm hauled to my feet. No cuffs this time, just eyes. Lots of them watching and calculating. The inmates size me up with new interest. Some with respect, others with malice. I've just painted a target on my back, but it was already there. Now, at least, it's visible.

In the infirmary, the doctor stitches the cut on my cheek with seven stitches. I don't flinch. Pain is just another language I speak fluently. The doctor, a tired-looking woman with kind eyes, works in silence. She's seen it all before.

“Hold still,” she says, tying off the last stitch. “Unless you want another scar.”

“One more won't matter,” I mutter. My body is a map of old wounds and narrow escapes. Each one is a story Sandy traces with her fingertips in the dark.

Sandy. The thought of her sends a sharp pain through my chest. I remember the first time I saw her standing in Aleksandr’s office, with her spine straight as steel, refusing to back down even when surrounded by men who killed for a living.

Her dark blue eyes had locked with mine across the room, challenging, unafraid, and something shifted in the universe.

I'd killed men, moved millions in illicit goods, and survived things that should have broken me, but nothing prepared me for her. It was how she looked at me as if the monster had never existed and only the man remained. It was how she ran her fingers over knuckles hardened by violence and whispered, “ These hands can be gentle, too. ” And somehow, with her, they are. She brought out a softness I didn’t believe I was capable of, like water from a stone.

Every night since the arrest, I’ve dreamed of her hair fanning across my pillow like molten silk catching fire in the sunlight.

The scent of her skin. The sound of her laugh and how she really listens when I speak.

No one has ever truly listened to me before her.

No one has ever made me feel worthy of being heard.

The doctor finishes and steps back. “You should try to stay out of trouble.”

I almost smile. Almost. “Trouble finds me.”

“It always does with you Russians,” she mumbles, but there's no heat in it, just resignation.

I'm escorted back to my cell. Solitary, they call it, and it's for my protection. But I know better. They keep me isolated and vulnerable, which makes me easier to reach.

Hours later, I sit in the corner, staring at the wall. The cell is five by seven feet. I've counted every crack in the concrete and every water stain on the ceiling.

I think about the charges against me. Attempted murder of a federal witness, obstruction of justice, racketeering.

All of it is bullshit and fabricated. The audio they claim to have of me ordering a hit is a clever fake.

Morozov has resources; I'll give him that.

And connections in places that should be untouchable.

But so does Aleksandr. He isn’t just the pakhan of the Avilov Bratva anymore. He’s become a force in New York, a power that moves in the shadows between legitimate business and the old world we come from. He won’t let this stand. Not when it’s blood. Not when it’s family.

Family. The word lodges deep in my chest. Sandy is carrying my child, a secret she whispered to me just weeks before the arrest. A new life. A chance at something I never believed I could have. A future that doesn’t end in blood and bullets.

Morozov wants me dead. Not later. Not at trial. Now. And he nearly got what he wanted.

I press the buzzer. After a long pause, Jensen's voice crackles through the intercom.

“What?”

“I need to send a message.”

Silence. Then, “To who?”

“Aleksandr Avilov.”

Another pause. I can almost hear him weighing his options. Jensen isn't on anyone's payroll, as far as I know. He’s just a man doing a job. But here, everyone has a price.

Finally, the door opens. Jensen stands there, nightstick at his belt, eyes unreadable.

“Make it quick,” he says, leading me down the corridor to the phones.

The receiver is cold against my ear. I dial the number to one of our secure lines. It rings three times, then clicks.

“ Da ?” Yuri’s gruff voice answers.

“Morozov made his move today.”