Page 40 of Filthy Promises

But if I quit and go to the cops, like the good angel on my shoulder is demanding I do, what happens to Mom? To her treatments? To the life I’m finally able to give her after years of scraping by?

And what happens to me if Vincent finds out I betrayed him?

I close my eyes, trying to calm my racing heart.

There has to be an explanation, right? Maybe he’s some kind of undercover agent. He’s rescuing those girls from traffickers, probably. I’m sure the gun is just for protection.

Even as the thoughts form, I know I’m grasping at straws. Lying to myself.

Vincent Akopov is dangerous. Possibly a criminal. Definitely not someone I should be fantasizing about.

And yet here I am, unable to shake the image of him with his collar open, his hair mussed, that small cut making him look like he just walked away from a fight.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I gather my things with shaking hands, shut down my computer, and practically run for the elevator.

Tomorrow, I’ll face him again. I’ll smile and take notes and pretend I didn’t see what I saw. I’ll be the perfect assistant.

What other choice do I have?

12

VINCE

Something’s wrong.

I can feel it the moment I walk into my office the next morning. Nothing obvious. Nothing that would trigger alarm bells for anyone else.

But I’m not anyone else.

I pause, scanning the room through narrowed eyes. My gaze lands on my desk. The crystal paperweight—the Moscow skyline trapped in glass—sits half an inch off from where I always position it.

My jaw clenches.

I move toward the desk, reaching for the bottom drawer. The lock turns smoothly.

Toosmoothly.

When I pull it open, I notice immediately. The drawer isn’t fully closed, the false bottom not quite settled. Someone got careless putting it back.

“Blyat’,” I whisper.

Someone’s been in my desk. Someone’s seen what’s inside.

And there’s only one person it could possibly be.

I glance through the open door to where Rowan sits at her desk, typing away. She looks up, gives me a nervous smile, then quickly drops her eyes back to her computer screen.

Guilty as fucking sin.

I shut the drawer and lock it again, replacing the key under the paperweight. My mind races through the possibilities, each one darker than the last.

She knows. She’s seen the gun. The cash. The passport.

What else has she discovered? What else has she heard?

More importantly, what am I going to do about it?

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