Page 211 of Filthy Promises

The placental abruption has stabilized, and at nearly seven months along, our baby is growing right on schedule.

For another, I’ve agreed to help Vince with his legitimization plans—not because I’ve suddenly embraced the Bratva lifestyle, but because I believe him when he says he wants out.

For himself. For our child. For us.

“Nervous?” Vince asks, coming to stand behind me. His hands settle on my shoulders, thumbs gently kneading the tension there.

“A little,” I say. “It’s not every day a girl gives business advice to a room full of Russian mobsters.”

“They respect you,” he says, his voice warm and reassuring. “After what happened at our wedding, they know you’re strong.”

I place my hand over his. “They know I can bleed dramatically in formal wear. Not exactly a résumé builder.”

“They know you’re my wife,” he reiterates. “The mother of my child. My partner. What more do they need to know?”

That word—partner—sends a ripple of warmth through me. It’s new, this positioning of us as equals. So much of our relationship has been defined by power imbalances: boss and employee, experienced and virgin, knower of secrets and kept in the dark.

But these past weeks, something has shifted. Vince has actually been listening to me. Asking for my input. Valuing my perspective.

It’s shit-your-pants scary…

… but it’s nice.

The door opens, and Arkady pokes his head in. “They’re here.”

Vince straightens, transforming as he goes. “Send them in.”

I take a deep breath and stand, smoothing my maternity dress. At seven months pregnant, I’m definitely showing now, my belly a pronounced curve beneath the emerald silk.

It’s a deliberate choice—the color reminds Vince of how we began, and the silhouette makes my pregnancy impossible to ignore.

These men need to see me as I am: carrying the Akopov heir, but still very much my own person.

They file in one by one—six men in total, each nodding respectfully to Vince before their eyes inevitably find me.

I recognize some from the wedding: Mikhail, the bear-like man with salt-and-pepper hair. Yuri, the youngest with cold eyes that miss nothing. Dimitri, barrel-chested with scarred knuckles.

The others are new to me: a thin man with wire-rimmed glasses, a tall, imposing figure with a trimmed gray beard, and a middle-aged man whose most notable feature is how utterly unremarkable he looks.

“Gentlemen,” Vince says, “you all know my wife, Rowan.”

A chorus of murmured greetings follows. I smile, keeping my expression pleasant but not overly warm. It’s a tough line to toe.

“Please be seated.” I gesture to the conference table we’ve set up.

It’s a power move Vince suggested: me inviting them into what is traditionally his space.

They exchange glances but comply, arranging themselves around the table. Vince takes the seat at the head, with me at his right hand.

“Thank you for coming,” he begins. “As I mentioned earlier this week, I’ve been considering the future of our operations. Specifically, the transition toward legitimate business ventures.”

A ripple of unease passes through the group. This isn’t news to them—Vince has apparently been dropping hints for months—but having it stated so directly seems to make them uncomfortable.

“With all due respect,” Mikhail says haltingly, “we have heard this before. Your father spoke of legitimacy for years.”

“My father spoke of many things,” Vince replies. “I do not merely speak. I act.”

I clear my throat gently. “If I may?”

---