Page 10 of Filthy Lies

I try to follow his instructions. But it’s hell to resist what my body longs to do.

“Come on, little one,” I whisper to my belly. “Fight. Your daddy is coming for us. We just need to hold on.”

The doctor positions himself at the end of the mattress. “Very well. This is as good as we’re gonna get. Now, when I tell you, push with everything you have.”

I’m on a precipice. The end of one chapter. The start of another. Staring down the barrel of the greatest battle of my life, and my weapon is nothing but the raw, animal strength of my own body.

The pain isn’t pain anymore—it’s transcended into something holy and monstrous. I never knew I could hurt like this and still be conscious. Still bealive.

Vince once told me that when he killed his first man, he felt like he’d crossed a threshold into a different world. That’s where I am now—suspended between existences, my body splitting open to bring forth life even as death hovers at the edges of the room, patient and hungry.

I’m no longer Rowan St. Clair, the marketing girl with a crush on her boss.

I’m not even Rowan Akopov, the Bratva wife.

I’m something ancient and terrible—a vessel of creation, a harbinger of blood and miracles.

If I die, I die with purpose.

If I live, I’ll never be the same.

Only time will tell which door I get to open.

“Now,” the doctor commands.

And I push.

“Now!” he commands.

And Ipush.

The room spins around me. Black spots dance in my vision. I’m vaguely aware of shouting, of the doctor’s urgent instructions, of my own body working beyond the limits of endurance.

“One more,” the doctor urges. “The baby is almost here.”

With the last of my strength, I push.

And in that moment, suspended between life and death, I send a silent plea into the universe:

Vince, find what’s left of us. Love our child enough for both of us.

I push one final time as darkness closes in.

5

VINCE

The abandoned construction site off West 57th Street looks like a skeleton of broken promises. It’s a fitting location for what I’m about to do.

I check my watch again. We’re two minutes past our agreed meeting time. My jaw clenches so hard I can feel my teeth grinding. The weight of those one hundred and twenty lost seconds presses down on my chest. Every single one is a slice in my heart that will never fully heal.

Because every second Rowan remains missing is another second she could be dying. Our child could be dying. The thought alone makes my hand inch toward my weapon, fingers itching with the need to do something, anything. The cold metal against my palm would be comforting—if I had someone to point it at.

But right now, I’m only shooting at shadows.

I’ve spent the last three hours hunting through every Solovyov property we know about. Nothing. Three fucking hours of kicking down doors, threatening terrified underlings, tearing apart rooms. All for nothing.

Nothing except blood. So much blood. Rowan’s blood. The image of that crimson puddle on the tile floor of our home haunts me every time I blink. I can still smell it.

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