Page 57 of Filthy Promises

We approach a group of men standing near a potted palm. They fall silent as we near.

“Gentlemen,” Vince says smoothly. “I’d like you to meet my executive assistant, Rowan St. Clair. Rowan, this is Mikhail Volkov, Dimitri Sokolov, and Anton Kozlov.”

I smile, extending my hand as I’ve done all evening. “Pleased to meet you all.”

Mikhail—a broad-shouldered man with salt-and-pepper hair and cold eyes—takes my hand first. “The pleasure is ours, Ms. St. Clair. Vince has been keeping you to himself, it seems.”

His voice sends a chill down my spine, though I can’t pinpoint why.

“I’ve only been in my position for a short time,” I say.

“And how are you finding it?” Anton asks. He’s younger than the others, maybe mid-thirties, with a dark beard and a scar bisecting his left eyebrow.

“Challenging,” I answer truthfully. “But educational.”

The men exchange glances, something unspoken passing between them.

“Vince has always had an eye for… talent,” Dimitri says, his gaze lingering on me a beat too long.

Vince’s hand tightens at my back. “If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen. I see the Nakamuras are free now.”

“Of course,” Mikhail says. “But before you go, have you considered our discussion about the Solovyov situation?”

Vince’s face gives nothing away. “I have. It will be handled.”

“Good.” Mikhail nods. “The sooner the better. The competition is becoming problematic.”

“These things require finesse, Mikhail. Not your usual hammer approach.”

Anton laughs, a harsh sound. “Hammers are effective, though. Especially when applied to kneecaps.”

“Subtlety has never been your strong suit,” Vince says dryly. “That’s why I’m handling this personally.”

“Just make sure it’s dealt with before the shipment arrives,” Mikhail presses. “We can’t afford another mistake.”

“When have I ever failed to eliminate competition?” Vince asks, his voice suddenly cold. “Have a little faith.”

Eliminate competition?My blood runs cold.

“Just saying,” Mikhail shrugs. “Solovyov has friends in high places. Even your father agrees they need to be?—”

“That’s enough,” Vince cuts him off, his voice sharp. “Not here.”

Mikhail glances at me, then back at Vince. “Of course. My apologies.”

Vince steers me away, his grip on my back firmer now. My mind is racing, trying to make sense of what I just heard.

Eliminate competition. Shipments. Kneecaps.

This isn’t business talk. At least, not legitimate business.

We stop by a deserted corner of the ballroom. Vince turns to me, his blue eyes searching my face. “You look pale. Are you feeling alright?”

“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just a bit warm.”

He studies me for a moment, then says, “Step outside with me. Get some air.”

It’s not a request. I follow him through a set of French doors onto a terrace overlooking the hotel gardens. The night air is cool against my flushed skin.

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