Page 225 of Filthy Promises

Her eyes widen. “Me?”

“You’ve been asking me to change. To find solutions that don’t involve violence. To build something our child can be proud of.” I squeeze her hand gently. “I’m trying, Rowan. For you. For our family.”

Tears well in her eyes. “You sent him to Costa Rica instead of killing him… because of me?”

“I sent him to Costa Rica because it was the most effective solution,” I correct. “But yes, I considered what you would want. What you would think was right.”

She laughs through her tears. “That’s… that’s actually incredibly romantic, in a completely twisted way.”

“I’m a work in progress. But there is progress, Rowan. There is.”

Her smile fades. “And Barkov?”

I hesitate. I promised her honesty, but some truths are heavier than others.

“Nikolai Barkov has been encouraged to pursue other opportunities,” I say carefully. “Outside of New York.”

Her eyes search mine. She knows I’m not telling her everything, but she also understands why.

“He’s alive?”

“Yes.”

“Will he stay that way?”

I cup her face in my hand. “As long as he remains far away from what’s mine.”

She leans into my touch, her anger dissipating though concern still clouds her eyes. “I was so afraid,” she confesses. “When I heard Kevin was gone, I thought…”

“You thought I’d crossed a line we couldn’t come back from,” I guess.

She nods wordlessly.

“Rowan.” I tilt her chin up, ensuring she meets my gaze. “I’m not a good man. I never will be, not in the traditional sense. But I’m trying to be a better one. For you. For our child.”

“I don’t need you to be a saint, Vince,” she says softly. “I just need to know that the man I fell in love with is still in there somewhere.”

“He is.” I press my forehead to hers. “You found him when no one else could. When he’d convinced even himself he didn’t exist anymore.”

She pulls me into a fierce hug, her pregnant belly pressing against me—a constant, physical reminder of everything we’ve built together. Everything we stand to lose if I make the wrong choices.

“Don’t make me doubt you again,” she whispers against my neck. “I can’t bear it.”

“I won’t,” I promise.

I hope it’s one I can keep.

65

ROWAN

I am a whale. I am a penguin. I am a wobbling, teetering, waddling pear with the bladder of a nervous chihuahua.

Because of all the aforementioned things, my entire purpose in life has boiled down to one thing and one thing:getting comfortable.

Seems easy? Ha! Joke’s on you. Actually, it’s on me. Try getting comfortable when you weigh three trillion pounds and you’re bearing a fetus that has a bright future in drumming and karate.

“Do you need more pillows?” Vince asks from the doorway, watching me with that trademark mix of concern and amusement that’s become his default expression in the final weeks of my pregnancy.

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