Page 7

DIMITRI

They move me without ceremony or warning. There is a knock on the metal door, and a look is exchanged between the two guards, who don’t bother hiding that they know exactly what they are doing.

“General population,” one of them mumbles like it’s nothing.

But it’s everything.

Solitary might be hell, but it’s controlled.

Predictable. I can manage my time, keep my head down, and wait for Aleksandr's next legal move. But gen pop? That is open season. A concrete jungle with no order, alliances, or rules. Just men crawling over each other to prove who the biggest monster in the cage is. And now I’m just another beast dropped into the pit.

The door clangs behind me with a finality that feels like betrayal.

I step into a cavernous, echoing space where every surface is made of steel and concrete.

The air stinks of bleach, sweat, and something sour that lingers in the back of my throat.

The din of voices dips for half a second as I cross the threshold, just long enough for the entire room to take notice.

Eyes track me. Heads lift. Bodies tense.

I feel the shift in the atmosphere, the tightening tension like a pulled wire straining before the snap that comes right before the first punch is thrown.

I don’t slow my pace. Don’t glance left or right. It will be blood in the water if I give them a moment of hesitation. I spent a lifetime cultivating the ice in my veins, and now it is the only currency that matters.

I walk through the center of the room like I still rule a goddamn empire. The concrete walls and steel bars are just temporary inconveniences in the grand scheme of my life. Like the men watching me are nothing but footnotes in my story.

They don’t know me, but it doesn’t matter. Men like me wear the aura of danger like a tailored suit. They'll either sense it and keep their distance or test it and find out the hard way why I’m the last man they should cross.

In the Bratva respect isn't given. It's taken by force if necessary. These prison walls might change the battlefield, but they don't change the rules of war.

I claim a corner table, my back to the wall, my hands flat on the cold metal. I don’t touch the tray they shove in front of me. I don’t react when the guards disappear behind the security glass like shadows retreating into the fog. I simply watch and wait. Each muscle is pulled taut and ready.

That's when he appears.

He is older than most of the meatheads milling around the mess hall. Hard, scarred, and as still as a loaded gun on a bedside table. His eyes have the flat, dead look of a man who's seen too much and lost everything that matters. He drops into the seat across from me without a word.

His arms are covered in ink. Military ink. He is the man who has walked through fire and didn't flinch when it scorched him.

“You're not stupid,” he says quietly, his Russian clean and clipped. “So, I won't insult you by pretending this isn't what it is.”

I don’t speak. In my world, words are cheap unless they are backed by blood or bullets.

“That transfer wasn't random. It wasn't policy. It was a death sentence,” he continues, voice low and even. “Morozov has men in here. Not many but enough to make you bleed if you're not careful.”

My jaw tightens, the muscle ticking beneath my skin like a detonator waiting for its cue. I don’t blink or show a single trace of the rage building inside me at Morozov's name. That bastard thinks he can reach me anywhere, even here, surrounded by guards, concrete, and security cameras.

“I've been inside a long time, Popov,” he adds, his eyes like slits of flint. “I know a setup when I see one. He wants you dead and he's getting impatient.”

“You're ex-Spetsnaz,” I say at last.

A faint smirk ghosts across his lips. “Mikhail.”

I lean in slightly, my voice dropping to something quieter, deadlier. “So, tell me, soldier…why the warning? You could’ve kept your distance. Let me bleed out like just another name on the list.”

He cocks his head, those sharp gray eyes sweeping the mess hall with lethal precision like a sniper marking threats before pulling the trigger.

“Because I don’t respect cowards,” he replies, his tone flat. “And Morozov? He’s the worst kind. Sends lapdogs to do the work his hands are too soft for.”

I watch him carefully. “And you’re not one of them?”

His gaze slides back to mine, unwavering. “I belong to no one.”

I study him. Every line of his face tells a story of battles fought and lost, of loyalty misplaced and trust shattered. He is a man with nothing left to lose, but he still hasn’t quit fighting. Those are the most dangerous kind. The kind I respect.

“You've got eyes in here?” I ask.

He nods once, a barely perceptible movement.

“I need them.”

“I figured.” He taps his fingers against the table once, then stands. “For now, we watch each other's backs. That's it. Don't expect me to take a shiv for you.”

“I don't expect anything I wouldn't do myself.”

His gaze flicks over me again, a soldier's appraisal of another soldier. There is no handshake, no dramatic oath. Just a silent understanding between two men who recognize the same darkness in each other. The kind of alliance we just made doesn’t need ink or blood.

It lives in the space between understanding and necessity.

My hand drops to my thigh, where the old ache still lives like a ghost beneath the skin.

The stab wound I took for Aleksandr all those years ago in Rio de Janeiro, the night everything went sideways.

A blood-soaked alley, a betrayal we never saw coming, and a choice made in seconds to protect my brother, protect the pakhan .

Danil is still in the hole, locked down and silenced. They know what they are doing, cutting the muscle from the bone and separating us like wolves pulled from the pack. Break the bond, weaken the defense, and leave me exposed for the kill.

But they missed something vital. I’m not alone anymore. Not really.

Sandy's face floats through my mind. Her fierce eyes and that stubborn mouth.

The way she looked at me before I was dragged out in cuffs like she already knew she'd burn the world down to get me back.

The woman who'd stumbled into my life and refuses to be intimidated by the blood on my hands or the price on my head.

The one who sees past the monster to the man beneath.

And the baby.

God help me. I can’t even picture its face yet, but I feel it like a heartbeat under my skin. A tether anchoring me to something pure and still worth bleeding for. My child. My legacy. A part of me and Sandy that will live beyond this bloodshed.

Otets used to say men like us don’t get happy endings. We live by the sword, and if we’re lucky, we die by it too. No illusions. No peace. Just the mark of blood and the code etched into our bones.

But Sandy’s pregnancy shifted something in me. It broke open the part I’d buried under years of violence and vengeance. It isn’t about the Bratva anymore. It isn’t about legacy, power, or retribution. It’s about them. Sandy and the life growing inside her. The future I never let myself want.

And I sure as hell aren’t going to die in a concrete tomb for Morozov’s twisted idea of justice. I have a war to win. And I’ll fight it tooth and nail, broken rib by shattered knuckle, until I claw my way out of this goddamn cage and back to them.

Mikhail slips back into the chaos like smoke on a battlefield, silent and unseen but ready to strike.

I stay put, my hands flat on the cold metal table, my body still and mind sharper than ever. Calm and controlled. In rooms like this, the real predators don’t fidget. They wait.

The mess hall comes alive around me again.

The scrape of plastic trays, the clang of metal spoons, and the low grunt of laughter from men who long since stopped caring about being heard.

But I know better. That noise isn’t comfortable.

It’s camouflage. And the lull? It’s just the calm before the blade.

Something is coming. I can feel it like static in my blood. It's the same instinct that has kept me alive through a dozen wars and twice as many assassination attempts. The sixth sense that all predators develop when they've been hunted long enough.

Two tables over, a fight breaks out. Fast and loud. It was the kind of brawl that didn’t happen without permission.

A wiry inmate with a shaved head launches himself across a table, slamming into a broad-shouldered guy who doesn’t even have time to stand. A fist connects with flesh. A tray flies, scattering food across the floor like shrapnel. Chairs topple. Men shout.

Then all hell breaks loose.

More inmates jump in. Some are pulled apart, others goad it on. It’s chaos, or at least it looks that way. But I've seen too much to believe in coincidence. This is a distraction.

And just like clockwork, the real threat moves through the smoke.

He comes from the side, lean and pale. A teardrop tattoo on one eye and knuckles already cracked from too many fights. He doesn’t charge. That would draw attention. No, he stalks like a fucking hyena looking for something soft to rip into.

I don’t give him the satisfaction of standing. Instead, I watch him approach through hooded eyes, measuring his stride and noting the slight favor to his left leg. It might be a weak knee or an old injury. Either way, it's a vulnerability.

He closes the distance, one hand slipping something small and silver from his waistband. A shiv. Homemade and crude but effective.

I rise when he’s three steps away, my body uncoiling with the controlled power of a viper's strike.

His mouth twists into a grin. “Popov,” he sneers. “Morozov sends his regards.”

“Then he should've sent someone better.”

He lunges. But I’m already moving.

The bench screeches across the floor as I kick it behind me, forcing him to shift his footing. That moment of imbalance cost him. My fist slams into his jaw twice before he registers the hit. The knuckles connecting with bone echo in my ears, familiar as a lullaby.

His arm swings wide with the blade, but I duck low and drive my shoulder into his ribs, lifting and slamming him backward onto the table. The metal groans under the sudden impact of his weight.

He gasps, the air rushing from his lungs. I grab his wrist mid-swing, twisting until bone grinds against bone, feeling the tendons strain beneath my grip. This is the kind of pressure that promises broken fingers and a useless hand if pushed just a fraction of a second further.

The blade clatters to the floor. And that's when the second one comes.

The bastard was waiting, hidden by the noise, the bodies, and the guards, who were too slow to respond. Too busy handling the fight across the room to notice the real danger unfolding in the corner.

He rushes me from behind. I barely turn in time, but I didn’t have to.

Mikhail moves like a shadow through fire. He appears out of nowhere, his forearm catching the second attacker mid-charge, driving him back with a grunt of pain. Then his elbow comes down hard across the man's temple, and he crumples.

It is fast, efficient, and brutal. The type of violence that doesn’t waste movement or hesitate with mercy.

“Two already?” Mikhail quips, grabbing the man's collar sprawled across the table and tossing him off. “You're popular.”

I don’t smile. But something in my chest settles. An alliance tested and proven in the heat of battle. Worth more than any oath or promise.

A whistle shrieks from the guard tower, piercing the din of shouting and fighting.

“On the floor! On the fucking floor!”

Rifles point down from the balcony. The guards finally noticed. Orders are barked, and sirens echo. Boots on the metal staircases thud as reinforcements descend.

“Go down,” Mikhail urges. “Let them do the rest.”

I kneel, putting my hands behind my head.

My pulse thunders, but I keep my breathing steady. The adrenaline still courses through my system, but I control it, channel it, and use it to sharpen my senses rather than cloud my judgment.

It isn’t about winning the fight but about surviving the next hour, the next day, and the next week until I can find a way back to Sandy and everything that matters.

Boots thunder toward us. The first guard shoves me hard, checking for weapons. His hands are rough against my sides, back, and legs. The second slams the butt of his rifle into the ribs of the guy who came at me. Another is already cuffing Mikhail.

“What the fuck happened here?” the officer snaps, his eyes wild with that particular blend of fear and authority that makes prison guards dangerous.

I don’t answer. Mikhail doesn’t either. The evidence speaks for itself. Two inmates groaning in pain, one with a dislocated arm, the other half-conscious, both bleeding.

And me? Untouched. Not a scratch. Not a drop of blood that isn’t someone else's. The guards can’t prove shit.

Still, I know what is coming. They drag us toward the wall with zip ties cinched tight, curses flying, and boots thudding against concrete.

My wrists burn where the plastic bites into my skin, but I keep my mouth shut.

Pain is a familiar companion. I learned to ignore it long ago, back when Otets first taught me that Bratva men don't cry.

One of the guards leans in, his voice low and oily, his breath hot against my ear.

“You're making enemies in here, Popov.”

I meet his gaze, cold and unflinching with an icy stare that's made harder men than him shrink away in fear.

“Then maybe they should bring tougher friends.”

He flinches. Just slightly. But it’s enough to know my message landed.

I might be locked up, but I’m not beaten. Not even close.

As they lead us away, I catch Mikhail's eye. A brief glance, nothing more. But in it is an entire conversation. A plan forming, and a strategy taking shape.

Morozov thought he could reach inside these walls and snuff me out. He thought wrong.