Page 2

“Understood.” Nothing else needs to be said. The message will reach Aleksandr in a matter of minutes.

Jensen escorts me back to my cell without a word. The door closes behind me like a coffin lid, but I'm not dead yet, not even close.

My knuckles are bruised. My cheek is stitched. My ribs feel like they were kicked by a mule. But all I can think about is Sandy. A glimmer of light in a life spent too long in the dark.

Night falls, and the lights dim but never fully go out. They’re always watching, always waiting. I lie on the cot, one arm behind my head, staring at nothing. Sleep won't come. Just fragments of rest between moments of vigilance.

The word family haunts me in the darkness.

The Bratva has always been my only family.

Brothers forged in blood, bound by oath, and tempered in violence.

It is the life I chose when I pledged myself to Otets and later swore unwavering loyalty to Aleksandr. I became more than his half-brother and second-in-command. I became his shadow, his weapon.

But Sandy changed everything. She showed me another kind of loyalty.

I close my eyes, and her face sharpens in my mind. I picture the curve of her smile, the stubborn set of her jaw when she’s angry, and how she looks at me like I’m worth saving.

Am I? I've never been sure. But I have to try for her and for our child.

A sound at the door pulls me from my thoughts. The small slot slides open, and a food tray appears, but I don't move. Poison is an old friend of the Bratva. One I've used myself on more than one occasion.

But hunger always wins in the end. I check the tray, inspecting every inch before I take a bite. Tasteless sludge masquerading as dinner, but I choke it down. I’ll need my strength.

While Aleksandr works the outside—lawyers, bribes, pressure in all the right places—I’m trapped here, alone. And Morozov’s reach? It stretches farther than the bars around me. The attacker today was just the beginning. A test. The real threats will come soon enough.

I need allies and information. A way to defend myself without ending up in deeper trouble.

My thoughts are interrupted by footsteps approaching my cell. They’re heavy and deliberate. Not the usual guard patrol.

The door swings open, and two guards step in. Their uniforms are spotless, movements routine, but there’s something off. Their eyes give it away. Cold and calculating.

“Popov,” one says. “Special interrogation. Now.”

I stand slowly, my muscles tensed. There is no scheduled interrogation. This is it. Morozov's next move.

“Where's Jensen?” I ask, buying time and assessing options.

“Shift change,” the other guard replies quickly. His hand rests on his belt, near his baton.

I could fight. Take them both. But then what? I'd never make it out of the building. And Sandy would never forgive me if I got myself killed trying to be a hero.

So, I nod and let them think I'm compliant. I let them lead me down the corridor, away from the cells, toward a section of the prison I hadn’t seen before.

My mind races, mapping exits, counting cameras, noting blind spots. The Bratva trained me well.

We round a corner into a silent hallway. It’s empty, exposed, and stripped of cameras. A dead zone on purpose.

I make my move. I drop low, sweeping the legs out from under the guard on my right, sending him crashing to the floor.

Before the second can react, I drive my elbow into his throat, cutting off his shout mid-breath.

He stumbles back, gasping for air. I rip the baton from his grip and swing it in a tight arc, catching him across the temple. He goes down hard.

The first guard scrambles for his radio, but I stomp on his hand. Bone crunches beneath my boot, and he howls in pain. One more blow to the head silences him. Not fatal. Just enough to make sure he stays down while I move.

I strip them of their weapons, radios, and keycards, working quickly and methodically.

Their own zip ties bind their wrists behind their backs, and I shove rolled socks between their teeth to keep them quiet.

If I'm lucky, it’s a temporary fix, giving me just a few minutes before someone realizes they’re gone.

I need to move. But where? Escape would be suicide. Even if I made it past the fences, past the lockdown protocols, there’d be nowhere to run. Morozov would find me. Or worse, he’d find Sandy.

No. Running isn’t the answer. I need to return to my cell and erase every trace of this. Make it appear as though they made their move and failed. Let it be another message. One he won’t miss.

I drag them into a supply closet and lock it from the outside. Then, I go back through the corridors, avoiding the main pathways. My heart pounds in my ears, but my hands are steady.

I slip back into my cellblock unseen. The night guard at the desk, a heavyset man named Donovan, who's usually half-asleep, is nowhere to be seen.

Another of Morozov's men? Or just luck?

I don’t stick around to see how long it takes for someone to find them.

Instead, I slip back into my cell, easing the door shut like nothing happened.

And then I wait for the alarms, the shouting, the inevitable fallout.

But for now, I’ve bought myself time. Another day.

Another chance. And if anyone tries to take that from me, I’ll bring this place down with my bare hands.

I am Dimitri Popov. And I’m going home.