Page 86 of Filthy Promises

I rise from the couch where I’ve been curled up for the past hour, wrapped in one of Vince’s shirts because my dress was torn beyond repair. The silk fabric—once red as a warning flag—is now even redder than that, stained with blood and dirt, abandoned in a bathroom hamper.

“I have a life,” I insist. “And a family. I need to check on my mother.”

“Your mother is fine. I have men at the hospital.”

That stops me cold. “Youwhat?”

Vince closes his laptop, giving me his full attention. “After what happened tonight, I took precautions. Your mother is safe. She doesn’t know anything about the attack.”

“You put men at my mother’s hospital room? Without asking me?!”

“Yes.” No apology. No explanation beyond that single, unapologetic syllable.

“Why?”

“Because Solovyov will target anyone connected to me.” His voice is matter-of-fact, as if explaining a simple business transaction. “You’re connected to me and your mother is connected to you. Therefore, she becomes a potential target.”

The clinical logic of it makes my blood run cold.

“This is insane,” I whisper, sinking back onto the couch. “All of this—it’s completely insane.”

Vince moves to sit beside me, keeping a careful distance between us. Gone is the man who touched me so intimately in the car, who held me close as we ran from gunfire.

In his place is someone far more controlled. Infinitely more cautious.

“I understand this is a lot to process,” he says, like he’s talking to a skittish animal. “But you need to understand the reality of the situation. What happened tonight wasn’t random. It was a direct attack on me—and by extension, on you.”

“Because of the Bratva,” I say, watching his reaction. “Because you’re involved in organized crime.”

He doesn’t flinch at the accusation. “Yes.”

“And those men… they’re your rivals?”

“The Solovyov family has been pushing into our territory for months.” His jaw tightens. “I’ve been trying to handle it diplomatically. Clearly, they’ve chosen a different approach.”

I stand again, too restless to remain still. His penthouse is beautiful—sleek lines and minimalist elegance, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the city.

I’ve never felt more caged.

“I need to resign,” I say, the words tumbling out. “I can’t do this. I can’t be part of whatever this is.”

Vince rises and snorts in derision. “Do you really believe you can walk away now? Pretend none of this happened? Go back to your marketing job and forget everything you’ve seen?”

“I don’t know!” I snap, anger burning through the shock. “But I know I didn’t sign up for this. For car crashes and gunfights and men dying in the street!”

“No, you didn’t,” he agrees, surprisingly gentle. “And if I could have shielded you from it, I would have.”

“But you can’t,” I finish for him. “Because this is your life. The real one, behind all the corporate bullshit.”

He doesn’t deny it. “Yes.”

I turn away, staring out at the city below us. Somewhere out there is my tiny apartment.

My normal life.

My safety.

Or maybe not. Maybe all those things are gone for good.

---