I have learned to listen.
There are sounds in this place beyond the usual footsteps of guards and the distant clang of metal doors. Sounds that don’t belong to them.
A faint tapping.
Soft, deliberate. Not the creaks of an aging building, not the random noises of a prison settling into itself. This is controlled, intentional. Three short taps. A pause. Then two more.
I stay still, barely breathing. I wait. The silence stretches, then comes again. Three taps. Pause. Two. A pattern. A question.
Someone is trying to communicate, I have an idea who.
I move slowly, my body protesting with every inch, my fingers ghosting over the rough concrete wall beside me. My skin is raw, my muscles tight, but I press my knuckles against the surface and answer. Two knocks. Pause. One.
A response follows almost immediately. Three knocks again. A question.
My mind sharpens. I recognize the method. I’ve seen it used before in prisons far worse than this, among men who understood that words could be dangerous, that even silence could betray them. But messages written in sound? That was different. That could slip past even the most watchful ears.
I tap again. Two. One. A pause.
Then, the final test. To be sure.Who are you?
The answer comes, slow and precise.Petrov.
Of course.
For years, Petrov and I had walked parallel paths, sometimes allies, sometimes rivals, always aware of each other’s reach. He was never a man I fully trusted, but I never made the mistake of underestimating him either.
If they put him here, it means he has something Nick wants. Just like me.
There’s a long pause before the next set of knocks.Alive?
A smirk ghosts over my lips despite the dull throb of pain in my ribs. I lift my hand and respond.Barely.
A beat. Then another message.Nick?
I knock once.Yes.
The silence stretches for several seconds. I picture Petrov sitting against his own cell wall, calculating, measuring his options. We are not friends. We have never been. But right now, we have a common enemy. And that might just be enough.
His next message is longer. The taps are careful, measured.Alliance?
I hesitate. Not because I am uncertain, I know the answer before I even lift my hand, but because this moment changes everything. It’s one thing to suffer alone, to endure, to plot in silence. It’s another to bring someone else into the equation.
But I am not an idiot. I know that alone, neither of us will last.
I press my knuckles against the wall, and I answer.Yes.
Another pause, then a new sequence of taps, quicker this time.Guard schedule.
I breathe out slowly. Smart. Straight to business. My fingers move carefully over the concrete as I respond, relaying what little I’ve observed. The frequency of footsteps, the changing shifts, the moments of dead time when security is at its weakest.
Petrov responds with his own knowledge, details I hadn’t caught, hints of a rotation pattern, the number of times food is brought in, when they check the cells. Small cracks in Nick’s system, but cracks nonetheless. Enough to build something on.
Petrov was never meant to be a king. Not in the way I was. He was meant to be a warlord, a man with enough power to control his streets but never enough to challenge the Bratva itself. That was the agreement—the balance I allowed to exist.
Years ago, when I was forced to take my place at the top, Petrov had already carved out a brutal reputation in the south. Ruthless, ambitious, dangerous. He had no loyalty to anyone but himself, no real code beyond survival and strength. And yet, he was useful.
Instead of crushing him outright, I gave him a leash. A short one.
