Page 16 of Filthy Promises

“Sit,” he orders.

I take my time doing so. First, I pour myself a drink from his bar in the corner before sauntering over to the blood-red leather couch and sinking onto it. I cross one leg over the other, sip the vodka, and then finally turn my eyes on him.

“What was so important that it couldn’t wait until dinner?”

Father slides a folder across the desk. “I checked the quarterly reports myself. Impressive numbers.”

“I told you they would be.”

I don’t touch the folder. I already know what’s in it.

I also can’t stop thinking about the last person I saw carrying those papers. It’s been on an endless loop in my head.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh.

Like fucking clockwork. My dick’s been hard for two days straight. Vanessa would carve out a kidney if it meant giving me this kind of reaction.

But despite all her moans and mewls and expensive lingerie, all the hours she’s spent trying to please me, she lacks something that the briefest glimpse of Rowan St. Clair showed.

Fuck if I know how or why.

“Yes, yes. You’ve done well.” He waves his hand dismissively. “But business is not why I called you here.”

Here it comes. I steel myself.

“I am concerned.”

My eyebrow drifts upward involuntarily. “About…?”

“You know about what. The same thing we discuss every month.” He leans forward. “You’re thirty-one, Vince. When I was your age, I had you: a red-faced babe shitting your diapers.”

I keep my face neutral. It’s not personal, what my father says to me. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t piss me the fuck off, though.

“Times have changed,” I answer coolly.

“Some things never change.” He taps his fingers against the desk. “Family, legacy—this is still everything.”

Like the lecture about my punctuality—or lack thereof—this is not a new line of thought from Andrei.

“I’m well aware of the importanceyouplace on those things, Father.”

What I think but don’t add is that I don’t follow in those footsteps.

I don’t needfamily. I don’t give a fuck aboutlegacy. Those are the trappings of dinosaurs like my father.

All I need is the crown. I’ll make my own way after that. I don’t intend to rely on anyone but myself.

Father reaches for the crystal decanter on his desk, pouring himself a drink to match mine. He sips thoughtfully, then picks up an unlit cigar to roll between his fingers. He squints at it like there are some kinds of answers etched into the tobacco leaf.

“The board meeting is next month,” he remarks.

I take a sip. “I’m prepared.”

“Are you? Because Mikhail Volkov thinks his son should take over as CEO when I retire. What do you have to say to that?”

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