Page 222 of Filthy Promises

Hard to honor that promise if I’m running my operations from a federal prison.

“What’s our play?” Arkady asks, watching me carefully. He’s known me long enough to read the mental calculus behind my silence.

“I want full background on Peterson,” I say finally. “Finances, family, vices, everything.”

“I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I didn’t have that already, now, would I?” Grinning smugly, he slides another folder toward me. “TLDR is that he’s underwater on his mortgage, deep in gambling debt to some unsavory characters in Atlantic City, and his mother needs assisted living he can’t afford.”

I flip through the pages. Pathetic little man living beyond his means, desperate enough to play with forces he doesn’t understand.

“Perfect,” I murmur.

“So?” Arkady raises an eyebrow. “Warehouse or river?”

“Neither,” I say, closing the file.

Arkady’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “Neither? Then what?”

“I’m going to offer him a job.”

“Have you lost your fucking mind?” Arkady explodes. “This rat is working with Barkov to build a case against you. Against all of us!”

“Precisely.” I stand and straighten my cuffs with deliberate calm. “A desperate man with debts and family obligations is being manipulated by Barkov, who’s using him to curry favor with the feds.”

“So your solution is what? Bring him into the fold? Give himmoreaccess to sensitive information?”

“My solution is to remove him from the equation entirely without spilling a drop of blood.”

Understanding dawns on Arkady’s face. “Costa Rica.”

I nod. “The development project needs a marketing director. Peterson has the exact qualifications on paper. Best of all, it’s far, far away from New York, the FBI, and Barkov,” I say. “A golden cage for our little songbird.”

Arkady considers this, then nods slowly. “It’s… neat. But what about the information he’s already passed along?”

“We’ll handle that in parallel. The evidence he’s provided is circumstantial at best. Without him to testify, it weakens their case considerably.”

“And Barkov?”

A colder smile crosses my lips. “I haven’t gone completely soft. Let’s just say our friend Nikolai will be too busy dealing with his own problems to continue his crusade against the Akopov family.”

Thatparticular problem will require a more traditional solution, but Rowan doesn’t need to know the details. Some parts of my world must remain in shadow—for her protection as much as for her peace of mind.

“Set up the meeting,” I tell Arkady. “Tonight. Peterson’s apartment. Make it clear this is a one-time offer.”

Kevin Peterson’s apartment is exactly what I expected.

Cheap stabs at luxury. Ikea furniture with pretensions of designer status. Massive television that probably accounts for half his credit card debt.

The man himself sits across from me, sweating profusely despite the overactive air conditioning unit clanking in the window. His eyes keep darting between me and the two men flanking his living room. I wonder which one of us he’s most afraid of.

“Mr. Akopov,” he stammers, “this is an unexpected honor.”

I stare at him without speaking.

Let the fear fester. Fear is useful. Even now, even with my new approach, fear has its place.

“You’ve been busy, Kevin,” I say finally, my voice conversational as I examine the whiskey he poured with shaking hands. I don’t drink it. “Brighton Beach is quite a distance from your usual haunts.”

The color drains from his face. “I don’t know what?—”

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