Page 61 of Filthy Promises

I close the folder. “I don’t need your help finding a wife.”

“Evidence suggests otherwise.” He takes a long sip of vodka. “The timeline has shortened. You have two months, Vincent. I’ve arranged meetings with each of these women over the next three weeks.”

“Two months?” I repeat. “My birthday is in six.”

“The paperwork takes time.” He taps the folders. “And I need to be assured of your choice before the transfer of power. The board meeting is in twelve weeks. This needs to be settled before then.”

I open the second folder. Another beautiful woman. Another set of statistics and qualifications, laid out like a resume.

“Katerina Volkov,” my father supplies. “Twenty-five. Mikhail’s niece. Harvard Law.”

“And the third?” I ask, not bothering to open the last folder.

“Anastasia Kuznetsov. Twenty-four. Dual PhDs in International Relations and Economics.”

I push the folders away. “I’ll find my own wife.”

“You’ve had years to do that.” My father’s voice hardens. “Time’s up.”

A servant enters with the first course—borscht, steaming in fine china bowls. We fall silent as she serves us, then disappears back into the kitchen.

“I won’t be forced into marriage with a stranger,” I say once we’re alone again.

“They’re hardly strangers. You’ve known these families your entire life.”

“That doesn’t make them suitable. It doesn’t mean I want to fucking marry them.”

My father’s eyes narrow. “They’re more suitable than some mousy, nobody secretary, I assure you.”

And there it is. The real reason for this dinner.

“Rowan,” I say, watching his reaction. “That’s what this is about.”

“The girl from the gala?” He spits the words like they taste bitter, as if erasing her name is the only fate she deserves. Like having a proper name is a level of importance she has not and will never earn. “I made inquiries. No family connections. No money. No education worth mentioning. Nothing to offer the Bratva.”

“She has… other qualities.”

“Such as?” He sneers. “A pretty face? A willing body? You can get those anywhere without putting a ring on her fucking finger,moy syn.”

“I won’t justify my choices to you,” I say. “The terms of the inheritance require marriage. They don’t specify to whom.”

“Don’t play games with me, boy!” He slams his fist on the table, making the silverware jump. “I built this empire from nothing. I won’t see it handed to an impulsive brat who makes decisions with his dick instead of his head.”

I remain calm, taking a spoonful of borscht. “Is the food getting cold?”

“This isn’t a joke, Vincent.” His voice descends into a dangerous growl. “For fuck’s sake, how many times must I repeat myself? The Bratva isn’t just business. It’s family. Tradition. Legacy. The woman you marry becomes part of that legacy.”

“Times change.”

“Some things never change.” He leans forward, elbows planted hard on the table, rheumy eyes unblinking as he skewers me with a gaze that’s seen far, far too much in his six decades on this planet. “You need connections. What does this girl bring to the table? Medical bills? A job she’s unqualified for? A virgin’s naivety?”

My grip tightens on my spoon. “You’ve been investigating her.”

“Of course I have.” He scoffs. “I investigate everyone who gets close to my son. Especially when that son is about to inherit everything I’ve built.”

I set down my spoon with deliberate care. “You’re right. It is business. And in business, you evaluate all potential investments before making a decision.”

“She’s not an investment. She’s a liability.”

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