Page 3

SANDY

I didn't know a heart could break twice in the same day, but watching Dimitri behind bars, locked up like an animal, did something to me I didn't know was possible.

It tore open a part of me I thought had been hardened by years of surviving.

The chains around his wrists. The bruises that darkened his skin.

He met my eyes but didn't flinch, even when he saw what I was trying to hide. My fear. My fury. My need.

Back at the Avilov estate, I stand at the guest bedroom window I've been occupying since this nightmare with Morozov began.

The moon hangs low and heavy over the manicured gardens, dragging long shadows across the lawn.

In the distance, I can make out the silhouettes of Aleksandr's security team patrolling the perimeter.

It is a constant reminder that danger is never far away.

My fingers trace the glass of the window as I replay my prison visit for the hundredth time. That sterile room, the cold steel of the cell bars, the clock on the wall ticking away our precious minutes together. The memory of it burns like acid.

I’d never set foot in a prison before today.

The one holding Dimitri was buried deep in the forests of upstate New York, where time forgets you, and hope goes to die.

Aleksandr pulled strings through his contacts to get me in.

It was technically against protocol since I wasn’t considered family.

Still, nothing about Dimitri’s arrest had followed the rules.

Aleksandr refused to let me go without an escort.

Yuri and Viktor came with me, silent shadows who didn’t leave my side.

The guard who met us looked bored, as if this was just another errand in a long shift of forgotten men and locked doors.

His keys jingled with every step as he led us down a maze of concrete corridors, the sound echoing off the walls like a warning.

It was cold, and the air felt stale, heavy with the scent of sweat and bleach.

At the end of the hall, he stopped and unlocked a steel door.

“Fifteen minutes,” he said flatly before jerking his chin toward the room.

Yuri and Viktor stayed behind. I stepped inside. The room was small, windowless, and suffocating. Just a table and two chairs with no pretense of comfort. I stood frozen, my throat tight and my emotions climbing too fast. But I couldn’t fall apart. Not now. Not when Dimitri needed me steady.

And then he walked in.

Dimitri.

He didn’t speak, and neither did I. For a long second, we just looked at each other.

I drank him in, my eyes tracing every bruise, every cut, every mark left by men who thought they could break him.

The stitched gash along his cheekbone. The swelling beneath his eye.

They told a story I didn’t want to hear but couldn’t ignore.

He was still standing. But I could see it in his eyes. He was running on willpower alone. And it gutted me.

“Are you okay?” I asked quietly, my heart pounding in my ears.

“Yes,” he said. Just that one word. Flat and controlled.

Now, alone in the darkness of the guest room, I press my forehead against the cool window pane, trying to ease the headache that has been building since I left the prison.

What could I have said to him? That I’m terrified?

That every night I wake up reaching for him, only to find his side of the bed empty?

That I’m carrying his child in a world that seems determined to take everything from us?

I blink hard, forcing the tears back. They have no place here. Dimitri doesn’t need my grief. He needs my strength.

“Aleksandr will fix this,” I said, injecting every ounce of conviction I could muster into my voice, even if it felt paper-thin.

He didn’t answer. Not with words. Instead, he pulled me into a deep, desperate, and grounding kiss.

“I love you,” I whispered against his lips. Three simple words, but they carried everything—hope, defiance, the promise of life waiting beyond these prison walls.

“I love you too,” he murmured, his voice low and rough.

Then the guard cleared his throat from the doorway, and just like that, our time was up.

Only when I was outside, away from the cameras and the guards, did I let myself crumble. In the privacy of the car, I'd sobbed—for Dimitri, our baby, and the life that had been so cruelly interrupted. But when the tears dried, something else took their place. Determination. Resolve. Rage.

Now, hours later, I stand in the silence of the Avilov estate, my reflection ghostly in the window glass. The woman staring back at me is someone I barely recognize, her eyes hollow, her skin pale, her hand resting protectively over the small swell of her stomach.

I didn’t sleep that night. I couldn’t. I lay in bed with one hand resting against my stomach, the tiny baby bump a constant reminder that time is running out.

I need Dimitri here with me. He hasn’t felt the baby kick yet or seen it on the ultrasound monitor, and he won’t get the chance if I don’t do something.

By dawn, I’m downstairs in the kitchen planning. Talia takes one look at me, and she pulls me into a hug that undid me more than I care to admit.

“Tell me what you need,” she says, her voice low and steady.

I tell her everything. The late-night visit. The way Dimitri looked. The feeling I can’t shake that something worse is coming. That I need to come up with a plan. Talia doesn’t hesitate. She is already reaching for her phone.

“Aleksandr needs to know,” she says, her thumb hovering over the call button. My brother-in-law, the pakhan of the Avilov Bratva, isn’t someone you keep in the dark.

“He'll try to stop me,” I warn.

Talia meets my gaze, steady and unflinching. “He’ll try,” she states. “Aleksandr knows what it means to protect family. Dimitri is his brother. But you? You’re family too.”

My chest tightens, not just at her words but at the truth behind them. Aleksandr and Talia are my family. But Dimitri? He is something else entirely.

“Dimitri is mine,” I say, the words escaping with a fierceness that surprises me. He is my heart, my fight, my future. We belong to each other in a way that doesn’t need explanation.

The coffee machine gurgles to life, filling the kitchen with the rich aroma of fresh espresso. Talia pours two cups, setting one in front of me. The normalcy of the gesture is almost comical, given the circumstances.

“We need to find out who's pulling strings inside the prison,” I note, my mind racing through possibilities. “Morozov has someone on the inside. Someone who can make sure Dimitri doesn't make it to trial.”

Talia's expression darkens. “Aleksandr's already working on that. But his reach inside the prison system is limited.”

“What about Lev?” I suggest. Lev is Aleksandr's right hand, a man whose loyalty is as absolute as his capacity for violence.

“He's been making inquiries,” Talia admits. “But we need more. We need someone who can get close to Morozov.” She reaches for her phone.

Lev shows up less than an hour later. He always carries an air of coiled violence, like he can snap a neck and finish his coffee in the same breath.

He listens quietly while I explain what I want.

Names, connections, any hint of who might be pulling strings for Morozov inside the prison or the justice system. Lev doesn’t blink.

“I know a few people,” he confirms. “But Aleksandr won't want you going rogue or putting yourself in danger. Besides, these people won't talk to me. Not without a reason.”

“Then we give them one,” I counter. “And if that doesn't work, we find someone who knows how Morozov thinks.”

Which brought me to Nick, my ex-boyfriend.

I hadn't seen him since that day in the coffee shop. The day Morozov's men came for me and almost killed us both. Aleksandr had tucked him away under Avilov protection, probably to keep him from running his mouth. I know where he is, and I also know he owes me.

Getting access to him wasn't difficult. Convincing him to open the door was.

“Sandy,” he gasps, eyes wide as he pulls me into the apartment. He looks like hell. Scruffy, gaunt, hollowed-out look from too many nights staring out the window waiting for a bullet.

“Don't say anything. Just listen,” I instruct.

And he did for once.

I laid it out. Dimitri. The false charges. Morozov's reach into the system. Nick doesn’t argue. He just drags a hand down his face, the reality of it all sinking into his features like he already knows how bad it is.

“I told him,” Nick mutters, pacing. “I told Dimitri it wouldn't be easy to take down Morozov.”

“You owe me, Nick. You owe him. And you're going to help me.”

He doesn’t like it. I can see the fear shining behind his eyes. But I also see a hint of guilt.

“What do you want from me?”

“Everything you know. Names, habits, safehouses, anything Morozov might use to pressure judges or fabricate evidence. You worked for him. You know how he operates.”

“He'll find me. And then he'll kill me. Besides, I've already given Dimitri and Aleksandr information. I don't know what else I can tell you.”

“If we don’t stop him, he’ll come for all of us. So, start talking. Tell me everything you told them, every detail, every name. Don’t hold back. Maybe something you forgot will come back to you.”

The silence stretches between us, tight and brittle. Then Nick nods. And just like that, we have a plan. A shaky alliance held together by desperation and the thin thread of past mistakes. But it’s something. And right now, something is all I have.

Nick pours himself a drink, his hands shaking slightly. “I overheard something at Venezia,” he states, referring to the Italian restaurant where he'd worked. “Morozov's men talked too much when they thought no one was listening.”

“What did you hear?” I press.