Page 85 of Filthy Promises

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Somewhere safe,” Vince answers, his hand finding mine in the darkness. “I’m not taking any chances with you tonight.”

“I should call someone… Let them know I’m okay…”

“Your phone was in your purse, which is still in the wrecked car,” Arkady says from the front seat. “We’ll get you a new one tomorrow. Secure line.”

I nod, too exhausted to argue. Too numb to feel much of anything except the warmth of Vince’s hand around mine.

“I’m sorry,” Vince says quietly, for my ears only. “You were never supposed to see that side of me.”

I turn to look at him, this man who touches me like I’m made of glass, who kills without remorse, who’s haunted my dreams for five years.

“I always knew it was there,” I admit. “I just didn’t know what it would look like.”

He studies me, something like wonder crossing his face. “Most people run when they see it.”

“I’m not most people.”

“No,” he agrees, squeezing my hand. “You’re certainly not.”

The city lights blur past as we drive deeper into the night, away from death, away from danger.

For now.

But as I watch Vince’s profile—hard, determined, splattered with another man’s blood—I know with bone-deep certainty that this is just the beginning.

I’ve crossed a threshold tonight. Stepped fully into Vince’s world.

A world where men die in the street. Where danger lurks around every corner. Where the man beside me is both protector and predator.

What does it say about me that I don’t want to go back?

25

ROWAN

“I want to go home.”

My voice breaks the tense silence of the penthouse. We’ve been here for hours—Vince’s fortress in the sky, fifty-seven floors above Manhattan.

After Arkady dropped us off, Vince led me inside like I might shatter at any moment. A doctor appeared, examined us both, cleaned and dressed our wounds. Vince spoke to him in Russian, and I didn’t miss how the doctor’s eyes kept darting nervously to me.

I was the variable. The unknown. The liability.

Then came the phone calls. Dozens of them, Vince moving to another room, voice cast too low for me to eavesdrop.

Now, dawn is breaking over the city, casting everything in cold, clear light.

I feel sick.

“Did you hear me? I want to go home.”

Vince looks up from his laptop, brows drawn together. “That’s not possible right now.”

“Why not?”

“Because Solovyov’s men are likely watching your apartment. Also, you’re still in shock and I need to know you’re safe. Take your pick.”

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