Page 11 of Filthy Lies

My stomach knots at the memory, bile rising in my throat. Was she already in labor when they took her? How much pain is she in right now? Is she calling for me, thinking I’ve abandoned her?

A figure emerges from the darkness. Tall, lean, dark hair. The surgeon’s scrubs are gone, replaced by nondescript clothing that blends into the night. He moves like someone who knows what it means to be hunted.

Daniel Spencer.

No. Not Daniel. Not Spencer, either.

DaniilPetrov.

Grigor’s youngest son. My enemy by birth and blood. The son of the man who has sought to destroy my family for generations.

Looking at him makes my skin crawl with ingrained hatred, a visceral response cultivated since childhood. Yet here I am, seeking his help.

Desperate times don’t just call for desperate measures. They call for you to turn your back on everything you ever thought you knew.

“You’re late,” I growl.

“You’re lucky I came at all.”

We stand fifteen feet apart, both of us well aware of what this meeting means. What lines we’re both crossing.

“I wouldn’t have contacted you if there was any other option,” I say.

It’s unlike me to confess that I’m trapped. But for Rowan, I’ll swallow my pride.

For her, I’d choke on it.

“I know.” He stays where he is, hands visible but tense. “If anyone in my family discovers I’m here, I’m dead.”

“If anyone in my family discovers I asked for your help, I’m worse than dead.”

The ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Yet here we are.”

I don’t return the smile. Can’t. Not with Rowan out there somewhere. Not with the knowledge that she’s in pain, afraid, bleeding out while bringing our child into this world. “The Solovyovs have my wife.”

“I heard.” His eyes study me carefully, searching for something. Weakness, perhaps. Or deception. “She’s in labor?”

“Yes.” The single word nearly chokes me. I should be holding her hand, not standing in this godforsaken place bargaining with a Petrov. “She’s been missing for over six hours now. We’ve tracked down three Solovyov locations. Nothing.”

“And you think I know where they might be keeping her?”

“I think your family has been watching the Solovyovs for decades. I think you have intelligence we don’t.”

Daniel paces a tight circle, weighing his options, but saying nothing.

I glance at my watch. Another four minutes gone.

Tick-tock, motherfucker.

Blood on white marble.

Screams in an empty hallway.

Black SUVs, disappearing over the horizon.

“How much do you want?” I ask, defaulting to the language I understand best. Transaction. Payment. Value.

Daniel’s head snaps up. “Excuse me?”

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