Page 29 of Filthy Promises

Shipments. Docks. No witnesses.

Holy shit.

The rumors are true. Vincent Akopov isn’t just a businessman. He’s involved in something dark, something dangerous, something illegal.

And I just overheard it.

9

VINCE

FIFTEEN MINUTES EARLIER

I wait until the office empties before I make the call.

Even Diane has left. The old witch is punctual to a fault, out the door at 6 P.M. sharp every day for the past fifteen years.

Rowan should be gone by now, too. I sent her home myself.

Dialing the secure line, I wait for the click of connection. “Da?” The voice on the other end is gruff, impatient.

“Mikhail,” I answer, leaning back in my chair. “We need to discuss tomorrow night.”

“I have everything under control,pakhan.” He uses my father’s title—the one that will soon be mine. It sounds wrong coming from his mouth, like he’s trying it on before it properly belongs to me. Flattery or mockery, I’m not sure.

I don’t fucking care, either. He can keep his opinions to himself.

“The shipment arrives at the docks tomorrow night,” I say, keeping my voice low despite the empty office. “Make sure our people are in position.”

“Of course. How many crates?”

“Twelve. All unmarked. The manifests will say farm equipment.”

Mikhail laughs. “Farm equipment worth eight million? The customs agents must be blind as well as stupid.”

“They’re well-paid to be both.” I drum my fingers on the desk. “No witnesses, Mikhail. Andrei wants this handled cleanly.”

My father may be retiring, but his standards remain exacting. A clean operation is a successful operation.

“Understood. And the competition?”

“The Italians won’t be a problem. I’ve spoken with Salvatore personally.”

“You trust his word?”

I smile at the question, and also at the memory of the Italian lieutenant dangling upside down from rusty chains in a dank Tribeca basement as I asked again and again whether he grasped what I was telling him.

“I trust that he understands the consequences of breaking it,” I say vaguely.

There’s a pause on the line. “And what about the commissioner? He’s been making noise again, demanding more money.”

Greedy bastard. We already pay him enough to fund his mistress’s Park Avenue apartmentandhis son’s cocaine habit. And he still wants more?

“If the commissioner gives you trouble, remind him of our arrangement.” I straighten a pen on my desk, aligning it perfectly with the edge. “And Mikhail? No mistakes this time.”

Last month’s fuckup cost us two million and a good man. I won’t tolerate another.

Just then, I hear something. A soft thud, coming from outside my office.

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