Page 210 of Filthy Promises

“No more secrets,” I say firmly. “If we’re going to make this work, if I’m going to be part of this world, then I need to understand it. All of it.”

“Rowan—”

“I don’t mean I want to be involved in whatever that was today,” I clarify, gesturing toward where Igor had been, where the carpet still bears the impression of his knees. “But I can’t be kept in the dark anymore. Not if we’re going to build a life together.”

He nods slowly. “Alright. No more secrets.”

“And I want regular updates on your legitimization plans,” I continue. “Timelines. Benchmarks. Concrete steps, not just vague assurances.”

“Done.”

“And most importantly,” I look him directly in the eye, “I want your word that our child will never be forced into this life. That they will always have a choice.”

This last condition seems to affect him the most. In his swirling eyes, I catch a glimpse of the boy he must have been—the one who built model ships until his destiny snatched those things away.

“You have my word,” he says solemnly. “Our child will always have choices I never had.”

I believe him. Despite everything, despite the horror of what I witnessed today, I believe that Vince wants better for our baby. Wants to break the cycle of violence and obligation that shaped him.

“Help me back upstairs,” I say, suddenly exhausted by the emotional whiplash of the past hour. “The doctor really will kill me if she finds out I’ve been wandering around.”

Vince stands and carefully helps me to my feet. His arm is a tight band of reassurance around my waist. “For what it’s worth,” he says quietly as we make our way toward the stairs, “I’m sorry you had to see that today.”

“I’m not,” I reply. “I needed to see it. To understand what we’re really up against. What we’re trying to change.”

He glances down at me, a question in his eyes.

“We’re in this together now,” I explain. “You and me. And this little one.” I pat my belly. “If we’re going to build something different, I need to understand what we’re rebuilding from.”

As we climb the stairs back to our bedroom—or rather, as Vince practically carries me, ignoring my protests that I can walk just fine—I can’t help thinking about the contrast.

There’s a boy in him who loved and wanted love in return.

There’s a man in him who thought that love was a fool’s errand.

I want to believe that there’s a path to showing one the wisdom of the other. There is; I know there is.

And even if that path is paved with broken vases and broken men and broken promises…

We can walk it together.

61

ROWAN

“I still don’t understand why we need a PowerPoint for this,” I say, adjusting the laptop screen. “Aren’t Bratva meetings usually conducted with more… I don’t know, threatening whispers and meaningful glances at weapons?”

Vince looks up from the stack of folders he’s organizing, amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. “Is that what you think we do all day? Sit around fondling guns and speaking in sinister tones?”

“I mean, based on the limited sample size I’ve observed…”

“PowerPoint adds legitimacy,” he explains. “And legitimacy is the whole point of today’s meeting.”

He’s right, of course. That’s whyI’mhere, sitting in the study that once horrified me, preparing to meet with Vince’s inner circle.

Three weeks have passed since I witnessed Igor’s almost-execution, and surprisingly, a lot has changed.

For one thing, my doctor has finally eased the bed rest restrictions, allowing me “limited movement with caution.” She said the word “caution” several more times, but I got the point.

---