Page 87 of Filthy Promises

“I’m scared,” I admit, voice barely above a whisper.

I hear him move closer, feel the heat of him behind me. Not touching, but near enough that I could lean back and be engulfed by him if I chose to.

“I know,” he says softly. “You have every right to be.”

“You killed a man in front of me.” I turn to face him, needing to see his eyes when I say this. “You executed him.”

Vince meets my gaze unflinchingly. “He would have killed us both. Or worse.”

“Worse?”

“Solovyov’s men aren’t known for their mercy, especially not with women.”

The implication turns my stomach. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the penthouse.

“So those are my options?” I ask. “Stay with you and be protected, or leave and be… what? Kidnapped? Killed?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Then explain it to me,” I challenge. “Make me understand why my life has suddenly turned into some kind of mafia movie.”

Vince runs a hand through his hair, the gesture more human than I’m used to seeing from him. For a moment, he looks almost vulnerable.

Then it vanishes.

“The Bratva is more than a criminal organization,” he begins. “It’s a family. A way of life. One I was born into, not one I chose.”

“But you’re the boss,” I say. “The… what do they call it? Thepakhan?”

“Not yet. My father still holds that title. But soon…” He trails off, eyes distant. “Soon, it will pass to me.”

“And there’s no way out? You can’t just quit?”

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “The only way out is death, Rowan. Mine or someone else’s.” The finality in his voice silences me.

“What happens now?” I ask, changing tack. “To me, I mean.”

“That depends.” He moves closer, halving the distance between us. “On what you want.”

“What I want?” I laugh, the sound brittle. “I want my life back. I want to not have seen a man killed right in front of me. I want to go back to a week ago when my biggest problem was an inappropriate crush on my boss.”

Vince’s expression softens. “A week ago, you were drowning in medical debt, working a job beneath your talents, and living in an apartment with mold in the bathroom ceiling.”

“How do you?—”

“I’ve had you investigated, remember?” He reaches out, fingers brushing mine, a tentative touch. “I know everything about you, Rowan. Your struggles. Your sacrifices. Your resilience.”

I gulp. The thought of Vince prying into every corner of my life without permission is, on the face of it, abhorrent. Any reasonable person would be offended. Slap him, yell at him—those are the rational responses. A strange, pleased purr between my legs? That does not make any sense whatsoever.

So guess which one my body chooses?

“So what are you saying?” I ask, swallowing back the satisfied murmur in my veins at the thought of Vince watching me the way I’ve spent five years watching him. “That being involved withthis—” I gesture vaguely at him, at the penthouse, at the bloody shirt I’m wearing. “—is somehow better than my old life?”

“I’m saying you have a choice.” His fingers wrap around mine now, holding tight. “Stay. Let me protect you. Or walk away and take your chances.”

“That’s not much of a choice.”

“It’s more than most people get in my world.”

---