Page 36 of Filthy Promises

“And if that handsome boss tries anything fresh,” she adds with a wink, “remember I taught you where to aim.”

I laugh despite myself. “Grab between the legs, twist, and run. I remember.”

“That’s my girl.”

I blow her one last kiss and step out into the hospital corridor, my smile fading as soon as I’m out of sight.

The weight of everything I’m not telling her sits heavy on my chest. But what choice do I have? This job is going to save Mom’s life. It’s going to lift us out of the financial quicksand we’ve beendrowning in for years. All I have to do is keep my head down, do my job, and pretend I didn’t hear anything I shouldn’t have.

Simple, right?

As I head for the elevator, my phone buzzes with a text message.Need you at the office. Car waiting outside hospital. —VA

My stomach does a somersault. How does he know where I am?

I glance out the lobby windows, and sure enough, there’s a sleek black car idling at the curb.

My finger hovers over the screen as I consider my options. I could ignore it. Go home. Pretend I never saw the message.

But Mom’s medical bills aren’t going to pay themselves. And if I’m being honest, there’s another reason I can’t ignore that text.

I want to see him again.

I take a deep breath and type my response.On my way, sir.

It’s a deal with the devil, indeed.

But at least this devil has blue eyes that make my knees weak, a smile that turns my insides to jelly, and a paycheck that might actually save my mother’s life.

As far as bargains go, I’ve made worse.

I square my shoulders and head for the waiting car. Whatever happens next, I’m walking into it with my eyes wide open.

Well, as wide open as they can be while I’m deliberately ignoring all the warning signs, anyway.

That’s kind of the same thing, right?

11

ROWAN

The office is eerily quiet after hours. My heels echo down the empty hallways as I make my way back to my desk.

After the impromptu summons to the office this afternoon—which turned out to be nothing more than Vince needing someone to take notes during an unexpected conference call with Moscow—I decided to stay late and try to make sense of his impossibly complicated schedule.

Call it professional dedication.

Call it brown-nosing.

Or call it what it actually is: me trying to prove I actually deserve this job that tripled my salary and might just save my mom’s life.

“Just a couple more hours,” I mutter to myself, settling into my chair. “Then you can go home, have a glass of your finest chilled Franzia, and pretend you don’t work for the Russian mob.”

The truth is, I can’t stop thinking about that phone call I overheard. More importantly, I’m thinking about all the things I’m not thinking.

Like, for example, why did it take me this long to consider involving the police? I haven’t even told Nat about it, for crying out loud! I’m the dumbest accomplice in history. Whoever plays me in the true crime Netflix doc is just gonna be a blank-eyed bimbo with a room temperature IQ.

The audience will be hurling popcorn at the screen like,This dumb bitch! Why didn’t she go to the cops? The FBI? The press? Hell, go find a stranger on the corner and scream in their face that the sexiest man on the Forbes 40 Under 40 list is secretly a mafia boss!

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