Page 213 of Filthy Promises

Together, we came up with the only reasonable answer.

“I’m an Akopov now,” I say firmly, resting my hand on my belly. “This child is an Akopov. My loyalty is to my family.”

Silence again.

But this one feels different.

This one feels like the tides have begun to shift.

“Now,” Vince continues, “Rowan has prepared detailed proposals for each of your areas. We’ll review them individually over the coming weeks.”

We dive into work. It’s a slog through details, one block of the Akopov empire at a time being dissected and prepared for rebirth in a new form, a better form. By the time they file out two hours later, I’m exhausted but cautiously optimistic.

“That went better than expected,” I say when we’re finally alone.

Vince locks the door and returns to my side. “You were extraordinary.”

“I was terrified,” I say. “Especially when Anton brought up the Petrov thing.”

“You didn’t look terrified.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “You looked like you belonged at that table. Like you were born for this.”

I laugh softly. “Maybe I was. Turns out having Bratva blood might be genetic after all.”

It’s a joke, but Vince doesn’t smile. Instead, his expression grows serious. “How are you feeling about all of this? Truly?”

I consider the question carefully. “Hopeful,” I finally say. “I believe you want to change. I believe this plan can work. But…”

“But you still have doubts,” he finishes for me.

“I’d be stupid not to,” I say honestly. “This world—your world—it’s in your veins. Breaking free won’t be as simple as a PowerPoint presentation and some corporate restructuring.”

He nods. “That’s why I need you,” he says. “To keep me honest. To remind me why we’re doing this.”

He places his hand on my belly, and as if on cue, the baby kicks against his palm. A small smile touches his lips.

“I won’t let you down,” he promises softly. “Either of you.”

I bite my lip, watching Vince’s hand splayed across my belly, our child nestled between us. The moment feels sacred, tender.

And then it shifts.

Without either of us saying a word, the room heats up around us. Vince’s touch transforms from soft into…

Well, not quiteun-soft, but the fire in it is undeniable.

“Vince…” I start, but whatever sensible thing I was about to say evaporates when his hand slides up to cup my breast through my dress.

“Do you have any idea what it does to me?” His thumb tweaks my nipple, sensitive and swollen from pregnancy. “Watching you stand your ground against men who’ve made careers of breaking people?”

I should push his hand away. The Bratva lieutenants are literally right outside the door, probably still discussing whether I’m a liability. This is exactly the kind of reckless behavior that could undermine everything we just built.

But it’d take the jaws of fucking life to pull me away from Vince right now.

“They’ll hear us,” I whisper.

His smile is sin incarnate. “Then we’ll have to keep you quiet, won’t we?”

Before I can process his meaning, he spins me around, bending me over the conference table. My presentation materials scatter as he presses his body against my back, his hardness evident against my ass.

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