Page 15

DIMITRI

I know he is watching me before I even see him.

You learn fast here to pay attention to the quiet ones who don't puff their chests or bark threats. The ones who wait and calculate. In prison, it's never the loudest predator that gets you. It's the patient one.

He can’t be older than twenty-one. Lean and sharp-boned with a couple tattoos that don’t match his age or the stories he's lived. His eyes are like dead glass, flat and unreadable. The look that comes an instant before a blade slips between your ribs.

He leans against the wall across from my cell, arms folded, mouth twitching like he is on the verge of either grinning or lunging. His prison jumpsuit hangs too loose on his frame, which doesn’t make him less dangerous. Sometimes, the hungry ones are the most lethal.

I don’t move from where I sit on the edge of my bunk. Just meet his stare, my face a blank mask I perfected long before I ever stepped foot in this hellhole.

“You're Avilov's brother,” he remarks, voice low and casual.

I stay silent. Here, words are currency I can’t afford to spend, especially not on someone clearly sent to test my defenses.

His fingers tap against his bicep—one, two, three—a restless rhythm that betrays his youth despite his practiced stillness. A wolf pup trying to wear an old wolf's patience.

He smiles or tries to. It looks more like a crack splitting his face. “Lot of people in here owe favors. Lot of people who'd like to cash in.”

Still, I say nothing. Because I don’t need to. We both know what he means.

Aleksandr built his empire on broken bones and blood debts. Some of those debts belong to men locked up with me. Others are owed to men who’d slit my throat just to hurt my brother.

The kid tilts his head, studying me like a puzzle. Maybe he expects fear. Maybe anger. He isn’t getting either.

He lingers a fraction longer, testing me and looking for a weakness. Or maybe he’s just bored and hungry for the wrong kind of attention. His eyes sweep over the cell, but they don’t dwell on the few possessions that mark my existence.

Eventually, a guard passes, keys jingling at his belt like some twisted wind chime, and the kid peels himself off the wall. He slips away down the corridor without a backward glance.

But the message is clear. They’re circling again. And this time, they are younger, hungrier, and less concerned with the consequences of spilling Avilov blood.

I exhale slowly, unclenching fists I didn’t realize I made.

My knuckles ache with phantom pain from fights I didn’t yet fight but know are coming.

Time works differently in prison. Threats don’t always materialize immediately.

Sometimes, they hang in the air for days or weeks before the blade finally makes contact with skin.

Patience is a weapon, as much as shanks fashioned from toothbrushes and bedsprings.

I stand, rolling my shoulders to ease the tension coiled there. My cell feels smaller each day. The walls seem to breathe and edge closer while I sleep. I pace five steps to cross from the bunk to the bars, then back again.

Five steps. Turn. Five steps. Turn. Like a caged animal. Like a man running out of time.

I think of Sandy the last time she visited. Her voice was strained but determined. Her eyes were fierce, loving, and scared all at once. And the child we share, growing inside her, is a miracle amid this nightmare.

My child.

The thought strengthens yet terrifies me. What kind of father will I be if I survive this? What kind of world am I bringing a child into? One where their father is either a convicted murderer or a target with a price on his head?

I don’t allow myself to think of not making it out. Of Sandy raising our baby alone and never holding my child or seeing their first steps. Never hearing them call me Papa.

The fluorescent lights pulse overhead, stretching sickly shadows across the floor. In the cell block, someone is shouting. Their words are muffled by distance, but their tone is unmistakable. Rage and desperation, the sound of a man coming undone.

I stay on my feet long after lights out, one hand resting near the edge of the steel sink, the other curled loosely at my side.

Ready. The darkness in prison is never complete.

There's always light bleeding in from somewhere, enough to see shapes and movement.

Sufficient to defend yourself if you stay vigilant. Sleep can wait.

The days blur together. I wake. I exercise in my cell with push-ups, sit-ups, and anything to keep my body strong and ready.

I eat food that tastes like nothing. I avoid eye contact in the yard, but I never show weakness.

I’m always aware of the angles, the blind spots, and the men who watch too closely.

I keep to myself and speak only when necessary. I become a ghost among ghosts.

But the kid keeps appearing. Sometimes, in the mess hall, seated three tables away, eyes tracking my movements. Sometimes, in the yard, leaning against the fence, talking to men I know are connected to rivals of the Avilov family.

Testing. Watching. Waiting.

On the fourth day, a new guard appears outside my cell during the count. He’s younger than most, with a nervous twitch in his left eye. His uniform hangs slightly askew on his frame, as if he hasn’t grown into the authority it represents.

“Popov,” he says, his voice carefully neutral. “You've got mail.”

He slides an envelope through the bars. Plain white with no return address.

I don’t move to take it immediately, my instincts screaming caution. In here, even paper can be a weapon soaked in chemicals, laced with threats.

The guard's eyes dart left, then right. “Special delivery,” he adds, his voice dropping. “From someone who says the baby's kicking strong.”

My heart stutters in my chest.

Sandy.

I take the envelope, keeping my expression blank despite the surge of emotion. The guard moves on quickly, continuing his count as if nothing happened.

I carefully open the envelope inside my cell, away from watchful eyes. The paper inside is high-quality and thick between my fingers. It’s not the regular mail that passes through a dozen hands and scanners before reaching inmates.

Two photographs slide out. One shows Isaak Kiril shaking hands with Benjamin Petrov in what appears to be a parking garage. The second shows the same men exchanging what seems to be an envelope.

And below, in handwriting I recognize instantly: We're getting closer. Hold on. I love you. We love you.

I stare at the images, understanding crashing over me like ice water. Sandy isn’t just sitting at home waiting. She’s digging, fighting, and risking everything to gather evidence that can free me. Pride and terror war inside my chest.

What the hell is she doing? How did she even get these photographs? The thought of her anywhere near Kiril makes my rage simmer. If Morozov finds out she is investigating him...

I close my eyes and breathe deeply, trying to calm the panic that threatens to overwhelm me. I can’t lose control. Not here. Not where weakness is like blood in shark-infested waters.

Instead, I memorize every detail of the photographs, then carefully tear them into tiny pieces. I flush them down the steel toilet in my cell, watching the evidence disappear. I keep the note folded and hidden in the seam of my mattress, where the guards rarely check.

Her words will keep me going. Her fight will fuel mine. But I need to get out of here. Before Sandy's investigation lands her Morozov's crosshairs again.

I have to survive and make it home.

Aleksandr shows up two days later. Peter comes with him.

The guards shuffle their feet, uncertain whether to salute or flee. I don’t blame them. My brother has that effect on people, making them question whether they are in the presence of a businessman or an executioner.

I sit in the visitation room, chained at the ankles and wrists, while Aleksandr stands there in a crisp navy suit like he hasn’t lost a single hour of sleep since they dragged me out in cuffs.

The contrast isn’t lost on me. I’m in prison orange, and he’s in tailored wool that costs more than most guards make in a month.

His eyes drag over me. Not with pity or sympathy. Just calculation and focus.

I know that look. He wears the same one when planning operations, analyzing risks, and determining where to allocate resources.

“You look like shit,” he says, taking the seat across from me.

“You would too if every asshole in here wanted your head on a tray,” I reply, keeping my voice low, mindful of the guard stationed by the door.

The fluorescent lights overhead accentuate the angles on Aleksandr’s face that make us recognizably brothers despite our differences. While I have always been the one people underestimated, quieter, and more calculated, Aleksandr wears his power openly, daring anyone to question it.

Peter sits down beside him, briefcase in hand, already talking. His wire-rimmed glasses reflect the light as he leans forward. “We've submitted a motion to the judge. A formal request for an evidentiary review.”

I raise a brow. “Meaning?”

“Meaning if the judge accepts, the prosecution will have to present all evidence against you for independent review. If the audio recording, witness tampering, and financial ties hold up, we might force their hand to drop the charges before trial.”

My heart rate quickens, but I keep my expression neutral.

“Might,” I echo, my voice flat.

Peter nods. “There's no guarantee. The judge is known to be cooperative with the DA's office. But we've flagged inconsistencies. It's movement in the right direction.”

I lean back in the metal chair, the cuff chain rattling softly. The cold metal bites into my wrists.

“Sandy,” I say, not a question but a demand. “How is she?”

Aleksandr's expression softens so subtly that only someone who's known him his entire life would notice.

“Stubborn,” he grumbles. “Fierce. Unstoppable.”

I almost smile.

“And the baby?”

“Growing strong. Healthy, from what the doctor says.”

I nod, relief washing over me. Whatever happens to me, Sandy needs to be safe. Nothing else matters as much.

“She's been busy,” Aleksandr adds. “Gathering evidence. Making connections.”

My shoulders tense. “And you let her?”

“You think anyone can stop her?” He raises an eyebrow, a ghost of amusement crossing his face. “She's as headstrong as you are.”

The chains rattle as I lean forward. “Keep her safe, brat. Whatever it takes. If Morozov finds out what she's doing?—”

“We've got her under protection,” he cuts me off. “At the estate. Guards. Security systems. She's not alone.”

The knot in my chest loosens slightly. The Avilov estate is as close to a fortress as any private residence can be. She is at least safe if she is surrounded by family and security.

“She got to Russo,” Peter interjects, his voice low. “Got him drunk, recorded him confessing to tampering with evidence, creating false witnesses. Everything.”

I stare at Peter, then at my brother. “She did what ?” I thunder.

Aleksandr meets my gaze steadily. “She disguised herself. Played a crime reporter. Got him talking. On record.”

My fists clench so hard the metal cuffs dig into my skin. The image of Sandy pregnant with our child sitting across from that corrupt piece of shit, pretending, risking everything is almost too much to bear.

“She shouldn't have?—”

“She shouldn't have, but she did,” Aleksandr interrupts. “And it might be what gets you out of here.”

It won’t be over even if Peter's motion works. Even if they tear down the lies and drag Petrov and Kiril into the light. Not for me. Not for Sandy. Not for any of us. Because freedom doesn’t mean peace.

Petrov will double down. Morozov will twist the knife. And the second I step outside these concrete walls, I'll have to be ready to spill blood just to protect the people I love. No mercy. No pause. Just blood and vengeance.

“When?” I question, keeping my voice steady despite the storm brewing inside me.

Peter shuffles papers, adjusting his glasses. “The motion is being heard tomorrow morning. If the judge grants it, we could have you out within days. If he denies it...” He trails off, the unspoken alternative hanging in the air.

If he denies it, I'll be facing trial. Years in prison. Missing my child's birth, their first steps, their first words. Missing a lifetime with Sandy.

Aleksandr's gaze hardens. “He won't deny it.”

The certainty in his voice tells me everything. My brother has leverage. The kind that doesn’t get discussed in prison visiting rooms under the watchful eyes of guards.

I nod in understanding. Some battles are fought in courtrooms. Others are fought with whispered threats and carefully placed bribes. Aleksandr will use every weapon in his considerable arsenal to get me out.

“Time's up,” the guard announces from the doorway, keys jingling as he steps forward.

Aleksandr rises, straightening his already perfect suit. “We'll be back. Soon.”

I stand as well, the chains around my ankles forcing me to move slowly. “Tell Sandy...” I pause, searching for words that can possibly convey what I feel. “Tell her I'm coming home to her. To both of them.”

My brother nods once, a promise in the gesture.

As they lead me back to my cell, past the curious eyes of inmates who heard whispers of my potential release, past the kid still lurking like a shadow at the edges of the corridor, I feel something I haven’t allowed myself to feel in weeks. Hope. It’s dangerous and fragile, but there.

Back in my cell, I trace my fingers over Sandy's hidden note, words I memorized but need to feel beneath my touch.

We're getting closer. Hold on. I love you. We love you.

Outside, the prison continues its rhythm.

Guards calling counts, metal doors slamming shut, and the distant sound of someone weeping.

I begin my exercises inside my cell again, preparing my body for whatever comes next.

Whether it’s walking out those gates a free man or fighting off whoever decides to make a move before I can.

Night falls. The cell block quiets, though it is never completely silent. I sit on the edge of my bunk, back against the wall, eyes on the corridor beyond the bars.

They are always watching like predators circling me.

I think of Sandy and her red hair splayed across our pillows, her laugh that can light up the darkest room, and her fierce determination that has apparently pushed her to risk everything to bring me home.

I think of our child still growing, becoming a promise of a future I never dared hope for.

I will survive this, and I will go home. And when I do, heaven help anyone who tries to take me from them again.

The lights dim for the night, enveloping the cell block in shadows. In the darkness, I remain vigilant. Because tomorrow, everything can change. Tomorrow, I might begin the journey home. Or tomorrow, the real fight might begin. Either way, I will be ready.