Page 209 of Filthy Promises

His palm settles against the curve of my stomach. The baby stirs again, as if greeting its father.

“I don’t want this life for our child,” Vince murmurs softly. “I never have.”

“Then why continue it?” I challenge. “Why perpetuate something you claim to want to escape?”

His hand remains on my stomach, but his eyes grow distant. “It’s not that simple, Rowan. The Bratva isn’t just a business I can walk away from. It’s generations of blood and loyalty and obligation. Centuries of tradition.”

“Traditions change.”

“Not overnight,” he counters. “And certainly not without consequences.”

I place my hand over his. “So what, then? We just accept that this is our life?”

“No.” The certainty in his voice makes me look up. “That’s what I’ve been working toward, these past months. A transition. A way out.”

“What do you mean?”

He shifts, turning to face me more fully. “I’ve been moving assets from illegal operations to legitimate businesses. Transitioning power to lieutenants who share my vision for legitimacy. Building safeguards, legal firewalls.”

“You’re trying to go straight,” I say, realization dawning.

“Not overnight,” he repeats. “It can’t be that simple. But gradually, yes. By the time our child is old enough to understand, I want the Akopov name to mean something different. Something they can be proud of.”

I study his face, searching for deception and finding none. “Is… is that even possible?”

“It has to be.” His fingers intertwine with mine. “I won’t have our child grow up as I did—learning to handle a gun before learning to ride a bike. Watching men beg for their lives at my father’s feet. That’s no way to live.”

The conviction in his voice is unmistakable. This isn’t a hastily concocted excuse to placate his horrified wife. This is something he’s thought about, planned for, is actively working toward.

I actually believe him.

“The man just now, Igor,” I say carefully. “You didn’t kill him.”

“No.” His thumb rubs at the heel of my hand. “I showed mercy. For his children. For his years of service. He acted out of desperation, not malice.”

I lean back against the cushions. “I don’t know if I can live with this,” I admit quietly. “With knowing what happens behind closed doors. How am I supposed to smile across my dinner table at men who have fresh blood on their hands?”

“I understand.” The resignation in his voice breaks my heart a little. He thinks I’m giving up on him. “I won’t ask you to compromise your principles, Rowan. I never wanted you to see this side of our life.”

“But it is our life,” I say. “Whether I see it or not, it’s still happening. And pretending otherwise doesn’t make it go away.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

We sit in silence for a long moment, my hand in his, the baby occasionally shifting between us like a silent reminder of the stakes.

“I need time,” I finally say. “To think about all this. To decide what I can live with.”

“Of course.” He brings my hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to my knuckles. “Whatever you need.”

As I look at him—this complex, contradictory man who can order a beating in one breath and tenderly feel for his child’s movements in the next—I realize that loving him means accepting all of him. Not just the parts that are easy to love.

“I’m not leaving,” I tell him, needing him to know that much. “I’m scared, and I’m confused, and I’m definitely not okay with what I saw today. But I’m not leaving.”

Relief floods his features, softening the hard lines of his face. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” I squeeze his hand. “I have conditions.”

His eyebrow raises. “I’m listening.”

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