Page 206 of Filthy Promises

I sink back into my chair, suddenly exhausted. My father’s right about one thing: Rowan has seen only glimpses of the darkness inside me. The parts I allow her to see.

There are depths I’ve kept hidden. Monstrous things I’ve done in service to the Bratva. In service to my family.

If she knew it all…

What would she do?

The intercom buzzes, interrupting my dark spiral. “Mr. Akopov,” Marta’s voice comes through. “Your wife is asking for you.”

Something in my chest eases at the simple message. “Tell her I’ll be right there.”

60

ROWAN

I’ve never been good at following rules.

That’s how I ended up walking in on Vince having sex with his secretary in the first place.

That’s how I wound up pregnant with the heir to a criminal empire.

And that’s definitely how I ended up violating strict bed rest orders to sneak downstairs, desperate for a change of scenery after six weeks of staring at the same four walls.

“Just five minutes,” I whisper to my unborn child as I carefully navigate the grand staircase. “Five minutes of freedom, and then we’ll go right back to prison, I promise.”

My doctor would have a coronary if she could see me right now, but c’mon, be serious—a slow, careful walk downstairs can’t possibly be worse for me than the crushing monotony of my bedroom, can it?

Besides, I’ve been feeling stronger lately. No bleeding, no cramping. It’s all peachy.

I want to surprise Vince. He’s been so attentive these past weeks—reading smutty bodice-rippers to me even though he despises them, keeping me company during bubble baths, sharing pieces of himself I suspect few others have ever seen.

Model ships and telescopes seem to appear as if by magic on the windowsills.

And he thinks I don’t know it, but I feel him slide into bed in the midnight hours to stroke my hair for a little while when he assumes I’m fast asleep.

It’s complicated, loving a man like Vincent Akopov.

Because I do love him. Despite everything, I love him.

I’m almost to the first floor when I hear voices from Vince’s study—harsh, guttural Russian punctuated by occasional bursts of English.

That can only mean one thing: a Bratva meeting.

I should turn around, respect his privacy. But like I said, I’ve never been good at following rules. And peeking through doors has only ever brought me good fortune, right?

… Right?

So instead, I move closer, drawn by curiosity. The door is cracked open, just enough for me to peer inside without being seen.

What I see freezes me in place.

Vince stands behind his massive desk, impeccable as always in a charcoal suit, his posture rigid with barely contained fury.

Across from him kneels a man—bloody, bruised, one eye swollen shut.

Two of Vince’s men flank the injured man, holding him upright by his arms.

“You think I do not know?” Vince’s voice is terrifyingly soft. It’s not the voice of the man who reads historical romance to me at night, who does funny accents for the palace staff characters. This is someone else entirely. “You think I wouldn’t discover your betrayal?”

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