Page 10

DIMITRI

Five more days.

That's how long it's been since the last attempt. Since the previous bastard with a blade tried to carve my name into the floor with blood. He ended up spitting teeth and choking on his own blood. But that didn't mean I won. Not really. Because another attempt always follows.

And this time, the whispers come with a different kind of threat. Not a shiv. Not fists. Poison.

It makes sense. After the last two failed hits, Morozov's dogs won’t want to risk drawing attention with another public brawl. Not when their target keeps walking away while his attackers leave in cuffs or on stretchers.

No, this time, they’ll want me quiet. Gone. No mess and no questions. Just a body slumped over a tray of food.

But I’m not stupid. And I’m not alone.

Mikhail has been keeping close ever since the second fight. He never said why, but he doesn’t need to. He knows what this place is, and he knows what I am. And that means something in here, more than the tattoos and scars.

He sees the tray before I do, catching the subtle hesitation in the server's hands. He also notices the slight shift in the rotation schedule and the fact that, of all days, today, I’m the only one getting mashed potatoes.

“Don't touch it,” he mutters, his voice low enough that no one else hears.

I don’t flinch. I keep my face blank and my posture loose as I reach for a different tray near the edge, which is meant for the person next in line.

We sit like usual. A corner table with our backs to the wall. Nothing in our hands but cheap forks and sharp instincts.

Across the room, the unintended target takes a bite. Just one.

At first, nothing. Then, the tray clatters. His chair scrapes back hard, his hand gripping the edge of the table as his throat convulses. And then he collapses. He twitches once, twice, then stops moving.

The guards move in like they've been waiting for it. One barks into his radio. Another guard checks for a pulse, and his teeth grind together when he doesn’t find one.

“No foaming,” Mikhail mutters beside me. “It’s something clean. Expensive. You've made an impression.”

I don’t answer. I just stare at the body being dragged across the linoleum like a bag of laundry.

My jaw clenches hard enough that pain radiates down my neck. Not because I’m surprised. Because I’m done. Done waiting. Done reacting. And done playing the part of the caged animal someone else is trying to slaughter.

They want me to fear the food, the air, and the man beside me. But it only solidifies what I already know. This isn’t prison, it’s war. And I refuse to die in here.

I push my tray away untouched, the plastic edge scraping softly against the table.

Mikhail doesn’t look at me, but I see the nod. The quiet confirmation. They made their move. Now, it’s my turn.

Lockdown comes fast after the body is dragged across the floor. Guards swarm like angry hornets, batons out, and voices sharp with the fear that makes men violent. They herd us back to our cells. No yard time or showers. Nothing but concrete and steel until they figure out what happened.

Not that they will. Men like Morozov pay well for silence, and money buys everything in here, even the blindness of those paid to watch.

My cell is six steps long and four steps wide. A metal toilet with no seat. A sink that runs rust-colored water for thirty seconds before it clears. A mattress thin enough to feel every spring beneath. This is where they expect me to break.

I sit on the edge of the bed, hands on my knees, and breathe deeply.

The image of Sandy flickers through my mind like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

The fierce determination in her eyes, the gentle curve of her belly where our child grows.

Her fingers tracing the scars on my back in the darkness, never asking where they came from but understanding all the same.

She won’t give up. So, neither will I.

From somewhere down the corridor, a man is sobbing the kind of broken animal sounds that tell me he's been pushed past his limits. Another curses rhythmically, a metronome of rage punctuated by the sound of fists against concrete.

But what snares my attention is the silence from the cell directly across from mine. Mikhail stands at his cell bars, eyes locked on the corridor, waiting and listening. His body is wound tight like a spring about to snap.

The guards are supposed to make rounds every hour. But tonight, the pattern shifted. Boots on concrete every fifteen minutes. It’s a break in the routine that tells me everything I need to know.

They’re coming for me.

I don’t move or tense. I wait, my mind calculating exits, weapons, and angles, planning the bloody chess match that is about to begin.

When the footsteps finally approach, there are three sets of them. Not the usual two. The jingle of keys is preceded by a hushed conversation. My door slides open with a metallic groan that vibrates through my teeth.

There are two guards and a third man in civilian clothes. He is tall and lean, the type of man who enjoys his work a little too much.

“Popov.” My name in his mouth sounds like an accusation. “Up.”

I don’t ask where we are going. I don’t need to. The thin smile on the civilian's face tells me this isn’t a scheduled trip for questioning.

I stand slowly, my hands visible, telegraphing compliance as my muscles brace for what is to come.

One of the guards, who is younger than the others, with acne scars and nervous eyes, cuffs me roughly. It’s clear he is new. His hands shake slightly as the metal closes around my wrists.

The civilian steps closer, his breath like cigarettes and stale coffee. “You've been causing problems,” he hisses. “Time to resolve them.”

I meet his eyes without fear or anger. With nothing but the cold calculation that has kept me alive through wars most men will never understand.

“Lead the way,” I reply, my voice even as stone.

They march me down the corridor, Mikhail's eyes following our procession. I don’t look at him. The plan we whispered in the yard three days ago was already in motion.

“If they come for you after lights out, it's not for questioning,” he'd told me, his voice barely audible above the sounds of men working out around us. “You'll have ten seconds. Maybe less. The camera in the east corridor has been broken since Tuesday. They'll take you through there to avoid the main hallway cameras. That’s where they intend to kill you. You’ll have one chance to break free and get to the laundry room. Hide in the outgoing bin until you’re loaded into the van. Once you’re past the gates, you’re free. ”

I count steps as we walk. Left at the first junction and right at the second. We are heading toward the administrative wing but on a route that bypasses the night guard's station, exactly as Mikhail had predicted.

The east corridor stretches before us, dim fluorescents throwing more shadows than light. There are no cameras or witnesses, just a long stretch of concrete perfect for an “accident.”

I slow my steps fractionally. The guard behind me shoves hard, impatient.

“Move it, Popov.”

That is all I need. I shove him hard, his body just slightly off-balance from the push.

I spin, my hands still cuffed, but my body is as fluid as mercury. The momentum of his own shove becomes his downfall as my shoulder drives into his sternum with brutal force. Air rushes from his lungs in a strangled gasp. Before he can recover, my knee finds his groin with surgical precision.

He folds like wet paper.

The second guard reaches for his baton, but he is too slow. I’m already moving, bringing my cuffed hands down hard on the back of his neck. The blow isn’t enough to knock him unconscious, but it stuns him and sends him stumbling forward into the wall.

That left the civilian. He isn’t like the others. He moves with the fluid grace of a fighter, sidestepping my first attack with ease. His fist connects with my ribs. It is a sharp, professional blow that would have dropped a lesser man.

Pain blossoms, hot and familiar. I embrace it. Use it. Let it fuel the cold rage I've been banking for days.

“Morozov send his best now?” I taunt, circling him despite the disadvantage of the handcuffs.

His smile never wavers. “Just his most efficient.”

He comes at me fast with a flurry of blows designed to overwhelm me. I block what I can and absorb what I can’t. I wait for the opening, and I know it will come.

Everyone has a pattern. Everyone has a tell. He slightly drops his left shoulder before he throws his right. When it comes, I’m ready.

I duck under his swing and drive my forehead into the bridge of his nose with a sickening crunch. Blood sprays. He staggers back, eyes watering. I press forward, ready to finish what I started.

Then everything changes.

A dull thud echoes in the corridor. The civilian's eyes widen in shock, then roll back as he collapses to the ground like a marionette with cut strings.

Behind him stands the older second guard, wielding his baton with practiced precision. His expression is neutral and professional, but his eyes are sharp as they meet mine.

“We don't have much time,” he says in low, accented Russian.

I freeze, ready to attack or defend. “Who are you?”

“Someone who gets paid better by Mr. Avilov than by the prison system.” He moves to the younger guard, who is still dazed on the floor, delivering another precise blow that renders him unconscious. “Your brother sends his regards.”

Relief surges through me like a riptide, but I keep my face blank.

“Show me,” I say, my voice cold and edged with suspicion.

He moves slowly, reaching into his pocket. No sudden gestures. No twitch of betrayal. Then he pulls out a small, solid object that gleams in the light.

A ring. But not just any ring. The one etched with the Avilov family crest worn by enforcers and men who have killed in Aleksandr’s name and bled for our Bratva.

“He said you’d need proof,” the guard mutters before tossing it to me.

It lands in my palm with a heavy thud, solid and unmistakable. My fingers close around it, the ridges pressing into my skin with a familiarity that silences the doubt. It’s real. And that changes everything.

My shoulders ease fractionally. “What's the plan?”

“Morozov paid this piece of shit”—he nudges the civilian with his boot—“to make sure you had an accident tonight. The permanent kind. Mr. Avilov got word three days ago. Managed to get a few of us on his payroll.” He glances at his watch. “We have four minutes before the next patrol comes through.”

I nod, my mind already shifting gears. “What now?”

“Now we make these two disappear.” He moves to the younger guard, grabbing him under the arms. “Take the other one. There's a service elevator at the end of this hall. Leads to the laundry facilities. Transport van's waiting.”

I don’t waste time with questions. I seize the civilian, hauling his dead weight up and over my shoulder in a fireman's carry. The injury to my ribs protests, sharp pain lancing through my side, but I ignore it.

We move quickly down the corridor. The guard leads with confidence, telling me he mapped this route carefully. The service elevator is tucked behind an unmarked door that blends into the institutional walls until you know exactly what you are looking for.

He swipes a keycard, and the door slides open silently. Inside is the elevator, barely big enough for all of us. The descent is short. The machinery hums with age but works smoothly enough.

“Three of Mr. Avilov’s men are on rotation tonight,” the guard explains as we drop deeper into the building's bowels. “Another five got transferred in last week. He's been planning this since they moved you to gen pop."

My jaw tightens. “He knew about the transfer before it happened?”

“He had someone in administration tip him off.” The elevator doors open to a cavernous room filled with industrial washing machines and dryers, the air thick with the smell of bleach and detergent. “This way.”

We drag our unconscious cargo through the empty laundry facility. The night shift isn’t due for another hour. The guard moves with the confidence of someone who has memorized every detail.

A plain white van idles at the loading dock, its engine a quiet rumble in the night. As we approach, the back doors swing open, revealing two men in maintenance coveralls. I recognize neither, but they carry themselves with the unmistakable poise of Bratva soldiers.

We load the unconscious bodies into van-like packages. No words are exchanged. This is business, clean, and efficient.

When the doors close and the van pulls away, I turn to the guard. “Now what?”

“Now you go back to your cell,” he says, checking his watch again. “And I escort you there like nothing happened.”

“And them?” I nod toward the van, which is now disappearing into the night.

A cold smile touches his lips. “They'll wake up somewhere very unpleasant. Somewhere Morozov can find them and understand the message.”

I know what that means. They won’t die immediately. Death will be a mercy compared to what waits for them. A message written in pain and blood that even Morozov can’t misinterpret: touch what's mine, and I'll take what's yours.

Aleksandr has always been ruthless in his vengeance.

“The story will be that Jacobs, the kid, got transferred to a different security detail,” the guard continues as we return to the main building. “Happens all the time. No one will question it.”

We walk in silence through the now-empty corridors. Nighttime prison has a different quality. The darkness is deeper, and the silence more absolute, broken only by the occasional moan or rustling from behind cell doors.

“How much longer?” I ask quietly as we approach my block.

He knows I’m asking how long it will take me to be free of this place, not how long it will take us to reach my cell.

“Soon,” his voice is low and confident.

We reach my cell. The door stands open, waiting. Inside is the same concrete box that has been my home for weeks. But now it feels different. Temporary. A way station rather than a tomb.

The guard uncuffs me. His movements are professional enough to avoid scrutiny.

I enter my cell, the door closing behind me with the usual metallic clang. But this time, it doesn’t sound like defeat. It sounds like a countdown.

I sit on the edge of my bed, hands on my knees, and breathe deeply.