Page 12

Tonight, I’m someone else entirely. A freelance crime journalist. Hungry, ambitious, and just curious enough to get a man like Russo to underestimate me.

I practice smiling in the mirror. Not my real smile, the one Dimitri says lights up his darkest days. It is a smile designed to make men like Russo think they are in control.

The baby kicks as if protesting this masquerade. I place my hand over the small swell of my stomach.

“I know,” I whisper. “But we're doing this for Daddy. Just a little longer, little one.”

I slip the small voice recorder into my bra, testing it one more time to ensure it works. Then I grab my purse, double-check the fake press credentials I printed, and head out the door.

When I arrive, the precinct parking lot is half-empty. There is a shift change, perfect timing. I wait across the street, watching the main doors.

The rain has given way to mist, turning the streetlights into hazy halos. I check my watch. It’s 7:45pm. Right on schedule, the door opens. Russo struts out, jacket slung over one shoulder, sunglasses on, even though the sun is already dipping low.

Showtime.

“Detective Russo?” I call, adopting a breathy, practiced voice that barely resembles mine.

I click across the pavement toward him, my movements smooth.

“Sorry to bother you. I'm Angela Dane with Midnight Crime Digest .

I've been researching the Popov indictment, and your name came up in some pretty intriguing ways.”

His posture shifts, his chest puffing out the way men do when they think they're smarter than the room. I can practically see him preening under the attention, his ego expanding like a balloon ready to burst.

“You don't say,” he smirks, removing his sunglasses to give me a slow once-over that makes my skin crawl. “You're writing a piece about me?”

I tilt my head, smile coyly, and slowly step close enough to smell his cologne, which is too strong and eager, like everything else about him. “Depends. Do you feel like telling me anything off the record?”

Twenty minutes later, we are tucked into a corner booth at some dive bar that smells like spilled whiskey and regret. This is a place where no one asks questions, and the lighting is too dim to see the lies on anyone's face. Perfect.

The bartender knows him by name and brings his usual without asking. I request a vodka tonic, knowing I won’t drink more than a sip or two. My baby deserves better, and I need my wits sharp as razors tonight.

The small recorder hidden between my breasts is already live, tucked neatly beneath the neckline of my blouse. I nurse my drink, smiling like I’m starstruck, and every word he says is brilliant.

“So, this Popov case,” I prompt, leaning forward just enough to suggest interest beyond the professional. “Word around certain circles is that it wasn't exactly...by the book.” I let the words hang there like bait on a hook.

He is four whiskeys in when the truth starts to bleed out, like poison from a wound too deep to heal clean.

“You know the problem with Petrov?” Russo leans in, his breath thick with alcohol and arrogance. “He thinks too small. Real damage? That takes vision. That's where I came in.”

I giggle at just the right moment, letting my fingers graze his forearm. My eyes widen like he just told me a secret I can’t wait to write about. Inside, my stomach churns with disgust, but my face remains a perfect mask of interest, one that is flattered and impressed.

He basks in it like a reptile seeking the sun, his ego growing with each carefully placed compliment and each fawning question. And then he gives me everything.

He tells me Petrov brought him a “mess to clean up,” and Kiril only needed a little “incentive” to cooperate.

He brags about manipulating evidence, about the “miraculously discovered” shell casings that just happened to match a gun Dimitri had never even seen.

And the cherry on top was a witness who never existed, just a name and a face conjured from thin air to make the whole setup stick.

Every word is filth. Every sentence is a knife to the gut. Each confession pushes me closer to the edge of my control, testing the limits of my performance.

But I don’t flinch. I smile like it is the most fascinating thing I've ever heard, even as revulsion curls in my stomach and my hands are cold with fury. I think of Dimitri, alone in a cell, paying for crimes these men invented over drinks just like these.

“That's incredible,” I breathe, letting admiration color my tone. “The way you handled all that...most cops wouldn't have the courage.”

He preens under the praise, draining his glass and signaling for another. “That's the difference between me and the rest of them,” he slurs, tapping his temple with unsteady fingers. “I see the bigger picture.”

The bigger picture. As if framing an innocent man is some type of visionary act. As if destroying our lives is an accomplishment to celebrate.

The baby kicks again, harder this time. A fierce little reminder of who is counting on me to deliver justice.

Russo waves the bartender down, eager to keep talking. Eager to further incriminate himself to a pretty face that seems to hang on his every word.

But I’m done listening. I have what I need. Every damning word is captured, and every confession is recorded in crisp digital clarity. Enough to burn his career to the ground. Enough to start unraveling the web they spun around Dimitri.

I stand before the next round hits the table. “Thank you, Detective,” I say sweetly, slipping my coat back on. “You've been...illuminating.”

His brow furrows, confusion cutting through the alcoholic fog. “Wait, I thought we?—”

But I’m already gone, heels clicking over cracked tile, breath caught between a sob and a scream. I push through the door into the night air, which feels impossibly clean after the suffocating closeness of his presence.

Outside, I press my back against the wall and clutch my bag as if it holds a loaded gun. I can’t believe it. The recording is enough to blow Russo wide open. To dismantle the lie they wrapped around Dimitri's name like a chain.

I hail a cab, giving an address three blocks from the estate.

I don’t want to lead anyone directly to the door.

As the city rushes past in a smear of lights and shifting shadows, I finally exhale, and that's when it hits me.

What just happened and what I just did. I risked everything.

My safety. My baby. But I won the gamble.

The proof is tucked against my heart, beating in time with it. Evidence that can free Dimitri. Evidence that can bring him home to me. To us.

My hands tremble as I cradle my stomach, feeling the small life inside responding to my touch.

But my resolve? It’s rock solid.

I'm coming for you, Dimitri. And this time, I'm not leaving without you.