Page 160 of Filthy Promises

With that parting shot, he walks out.

I stay at the window for a long time after he’s left, looking out at the filthy city, wondering just where each of us fit in this vast, dark puzzle sprawled beneath us.

47

ROWAN

I’m dreaming of the moment that started it all.

I’m standing in the office door again, but instead of files in my arms, it’s a squalling baby swaddled in blankets the same antiseptic green color as Mom’s hospital room.

I look up. There’s no Vanessa this time, but Vince is there. He’s naked, huge, terrifying. Tattooed and inked, scarred and savage, eyes like black pits and hands like weapons attached to his body.

He looks.

Looks.

Looks.

Winks.

In my dream, I don’t run. Instead, I step inside.

The door closes behind me. Vince smiles. “I’ve been waiting for you,”he says.

Then he rips the baby out of my arms.

I wake with a gasp, heart hammering against my ribs, the dream still clinging to me like a second skin I never asked for and never wanted.

It takes me a moment to realize what woke me—a knock at my door, firm and insistent. My clock reads 4:23 A.M. I fell asleep on the couch sometime after crying myself into exhaustion.

Great. Perfect. Exactly what I need right now.

The knocker has to be Vince. Only he would pound at my door at this hour, with complete disregard for normal manners or the barest minimum of human decency.

The knock comes again, more forceful this time.

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM.Like a frantic heart just before it gives out for good.

“Go away, Vince!” I call out, wrapping my throw blanket around my shoulders like armor.

“It’s not Vincent, Ms. St. Clair.”

Frowning, I step over to the door, look through the peephole, and…

Oh.

Oh, God.

Andrei Akopov is on my doorstep.

This is fine. Everything is fine. Just the most terrifying man in New York standing outside my crappy apartment while I’m sporting the puffy, red-eyed look of someone who’s been sobbing for hours, because I have been, courtesy of his blackhearted son.

He’s silver-haired and imposing, impeccably dressed in an immaculate suit despite the hour. He looks impatient. He keeps glancing at his watch like every second spent waiting is a personal insult he will not stand.

When I open the door, I’m instantly dwarfed by his presence. He’s not as tall as Vince, but somehow he seems to take up evenmorespace. More oxygen. More everything.

“Ms. St. Clair,” he says again. “May I come in?”

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