Page 242 of Filthy Promises

But it’s not Vince.

It’s not Vince at all.

71

VINCE

I kick the door to my own home off its fucking hinges.

“Rowan!”

My voice echoes through the empty mansion like a death knell. Nothing. Just silence bleeding from every corner.

“ROWAN!”

The foyer is immaculate. Too immaculate. No sign of disturbance. But I know better. I can feel it in my bones—something is wrong. My wife’s scent still hangs in the air.

But too faint.

Too fucking faint.

I sprint through every room, gun drawn, heart hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape my chest. Her phone lies abandoned on the floor outside my office.

Two missed calls. Both from me.

When I reach the office’s threshold, I see it—a smear of crimson across the marble floor leading toward the panic room.

Blood. Fresh.

My lungs freeze mid-breath.

The panic room keypad is flashing. Six of the seven digits have been punched in. One remains.

She never made it inside.

I drop to my knees, fingers hovering over the blood. Her blood. My pregnant wife’s blood.

Something inside me—something I’ve spent months trying to bury for her sake—rips free from its chains. The monster. The Bratva soldier. The killer that’s been dormant since I fell for her.

My father loosened the cuffs, and now, it’s out again. Wild.Hungry.

His voice whispers in my ear.Are you sure Rowan is safe right now?

I pull out my phone, hitting Arkady’s number.

“Mobilize everyone. Now.” My voice doesn’t sound human anymore.

“Vince, what?—”

“They took her. They took Rowan. She’s in labor.”

Silence on the line. Then: “I’ll make the calls.”

I stand and holster my weapon. The rage inside me builds, cold and precise. Not the hot, sloppy anger of a desperate husband.No. This is the knife’s edge fury of a man who’s spent his life learning how to hunt and kill.

My father has forgotten who I am. He thinks my love for Rowan has made me soft.

He’s about to discover it’s made me more dangerous than he could possibly imagine.

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