Page 62 of Filthy Promises

“That’s your opinion.”

“It’s a fact.” He pulls another folder from beside his chair and tosses it onto the table. It slides toward me, stopping just short of my bowl. “See for yourself.”

I open it to find more information on Rowan. It’s nothing I haven’t dug up myself already. Her mother’s medical records. Financial statements showing years of debt. Academic transcripts, employment history, blah blah fucking blah.

But then…

Surveillance photos.

Dozens of them. Rowan leaving her apartment. Visiting her mother in the hospital. Sitting at her desk in my office.

Even one of us talking on the terrace at last night’s gala, her face tilted up to mine, eyes bright and shining.

Something hot and dangerous unfurls in my chest.

“You had her followed,” I say, my voice deadly quiet.

“I protect what’s mine.”

“She’s not a threat.”

“No?” He raises an eyebrow. “She knows about the gun in your desk. About the shipments. About Mikhail and the others. How long before she runs to the police, eh?”

I close the folder, pushing it back toward him. “She won’t.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I can. And I do.”

My father studies me for a long moment. “You care for her,” he finally says in utter disgust, like it’s a diagnosis of terminal illness.

I don’t answer.

I don’t need to.

“This is worse than I thought.” He shakes his head. “Caring makes you vulnerable, Vincent. I taught you better than that.”

“You taught me many things,” I agree. “Not all of them worth remembering.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to cut.

“You have two months,” he finally says. “You will meet with each of these women. You will choose one of them. You will announce your engagement at the board meeting.” He leans forward. “Or you get nothing. Not the company. Not the Bratva. Not a single share or dollar or ounce of respect from me or anyone else in our world.”

“And if I choose someone else?”

“Then you’re on your own.” His eyes are as cold as the winters he was born into. “Not a penny of mine will pass into your hands. It will be just you and whatever gutter rat you’ve decided is worth throwing away your birthright for.”

I consider my options carefully. I could tell him to go fuck himself. Walk away from all of it. Start fresh.

But the Bratva doesn’t work that way. Walking away isn’t just leaving a job or a family—it’s leaving a way of life. One that comes with enemies who would immediately see me as vulnerable. Fair game.

And by extension, anyone close to me would be fair game, too.

“I’ll meet with them,” I say finally. “All three.”

Relief flashes across my father’s face, quickly masked. “Good. The first meeting is tomorrow night. Dinner with Irina Petrov at Per Se. Eight o’clock.”

“Fine.” I take a drink of vodka, feeling it burn all the way down. “But I make no promises about the outcome.”

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