Page 1 of Filthy Lies

1

VINCE

I burst through the doors of our Brighton Beach headquarters, and the room falls silent.

Twenty-seven pairs of eyes lock on me. It’s the weekly captain’s meeting. Perfect timing.

Blood still cakes beneath my fingernails. Rowan’s blood. I couldn’t bring myself to wash it off.

“They took my wife.” My voice is a glacier—cold, massive, and intent on crushing anything in its path.

No one speaks. No one breathes. They know that look in my eyes.

It’s the look that made the Solovyovs burn their own warehouse to the ground rather than face me. The look that earned me my reputation before I was old enough to legally drink.

The look my father helped cultivate, then feared when I turned it on him.

“Every resource. Every contact. Every fucking favor owed to the Akopov name… call it in.” I scan the room, memorizing who flinches and who holds my gaze. The information will be useful later. “I want her found. Now.”

Mikhail stands first. “The men are already mobilizing. Arkady called ahead.”

“That’s not good enough.” I cross to the center table and slam my fist down. A crystal tumbler bounces and tips over. Liquid sloshes across maps and territory markers, drowning it all in dark whiskey. “I want the entire Eastern Seaboard on lockdown. Nothing moves without us knowing about it. Not so much as a single fucking Girl Scout cookie.”

Dimitri clears his throat. “What about the feds? They’ll notice if we?—”

“Do I look like I give a fuck about the feds, Dima?”

My throat is taut and pained from holding in anguished roars. It’s nothing compared to the turmoil in my head, though. I close my eyes, fighting the flashback that’s brimming on the horizon.

But it comes anyway.

Blood on white marble. Six digits punched into the keypad.

So close to safety…

And yet so fucking far.

“She’s in labor,” I continue, quieter now. “My child is coming, and if Rowan delivers in captivity—if anything happens to either of them—there won’t be enough bullets on the goddamn planet to protect whoever’s responsible.”

That’s all it takes. The room ripples with movement. Phones appear. Calls are made. Orders given. The machine I built rumbles to life.

I turn to Pavel, our tech expert. “Security footage?”

“Wiped clean. Professional job, by the looks of it.” He doesn’t meet my eyes. “But I’m reconstructing from network backups. Give me an hour.”

“You have twenty minutes.”

I stride toward my office, but Goran—old, loyal, ruthless Goran—blocks my path. “Vincent,” he rumbles. “This bears your father’s signature.”

What’s left unsaid is the obvious question:Are you prepared to kill your own blood?

Once upon a time, I wouldn’t have known how to answer it. Now, it’s as if the reply has been waiting on my lips since the moment I was born.

“My father died when he laid a hand on my wife.”

I brush past him and into the dark sanctuary of my office. The door barely closes before my composure fractures.

My knees hit the floor like shattering glass. My lungs burn. The room spins.

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