Page 83 of Filthy Promises

I drag my eyes away from the body to find Vince’s face inches from mine. His features are set in stone, but his eyes burn with an intensity I’ve never seen before.

“I need you to focus,” he says. “Can you do that for me?”

I nod mechanically.

“Good girl.” He reaches for my face, his bloodied knuckles gentle against my cheek. “I’m going to get you out of here, but I need you to follow my instructions exactly. No questions. No hesitation. Understood?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“They’re regrouping. We have maybe thirty seconds. I’m going to pull you out, and we’re going to run to that alley.” He nods toward a narrow passage between buildings about twenty yardsaway. “Don’t look back. Don’t slow down. If I tell you to drop, you drop. If I tell you to run, you run. Clear?”

“Clear.”

He studies my face for a moment, as if gauging whether I’m really processing his words.

Whatever he sees must satisfy him, because he nods once, decisively.

“On three. One… two… three!”

He grabs my arm and yanks me from the wreckage of the car. The sudden movement makes my head spin, but adrenaline takes over.

We sprint toward the alley, my heels abandoned in the car, bare feet slapping against cold pavement.

A shout echoes behind us. More gunfire.

Vince wraps his arm around my waist, half-carrying me as we run. His body shields mine. A wall of man between me and the danger.

We reach the alley just as bullets strike the brick wall beside us, sending fragments flying. One grazes my cheek, hot and sharp. I gasp at the sudden pain.

Vince pulls me deeper into the darkness, one arm still around me, the other holding his gun at the ready.

“You’re bleeding,” he notes, eyes locked on the cut on my face.

“So are you,” I reply, noticing for the first time the gash across his forehead, the torn sleeve of his jacket.

He ignores it as he checks behind us. “We need to keep moving. My men will be here soon, but we can’t stay in one place.”

“Your men?”

“Bratva security. I triggered the alarm when I realized we were being hit.”

The confirmation of what I’ve suspected for months should shock me. It doesn’t. Not after watching him kill a man without blinking.

We move deeper into the maze of alleyways, Vince navigating with confident familiarity. Each sound makes me flinch—a cat knocking over a trash can, distant sirens, the echo of our own footsteps.

“Who were they?” I finally ask.

“Solovyov’s men,” he answers grimly. “He’s been warned. Repeatedly.”

I remember the name from the gala. From the overheard conversation about eliminating competition.

“This is my fault,” Vince continues, surprising me. “I’ve been distracted. Sloppy. Let my guard down.”

He stops suddenly, pushing me against a wall, his body covering mine as headlights sweep past the mouth of the alley.

For a moment, I think the attackers have found us.

But Vince relaxes. “It’s Arkady,” he says, recognizing the vehicle. “We’re safe.”

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