Page 140 of Filthy Lies

Hasanything changed? Have I? Three days of hell without her, and I’m still the same man who would burn the world for what I want. The same man who sees violence as the first and best solution to any problem.

“I don’t know,” I admit finally. “But Iwantto change. I need to change. I’m fuckingtryingto change, Rowan. I swear to God I am.”

Rowan studies me for a long moment, eyes searching mine for any hint of deception. “It’s late. We both need to think. To sleep.”

She’s offering an olive branch—staying the night instead of fleeing again. But it’s clear from the rigidity of her posture that she’s not offering anything more.

“Take our bedroom,” I say. “I’ll sleep down here.”

She nods and turns to leave. At the staircase, she pauses. “Twenty-four hours isn’t much time to decide between a prison cell and a coffin.”

“No. It’s not.”

“Whatever you choose, Vince—” She looks back at me, those green eyes suddenly glistening with unshed tears. “Don’t make me tell our daughter that her father sacrificed himself for some misguided notion of honor or pride.”

“Would you rather tell her that her father is a rat? The lowest form of life in our world?”

“I’d rather tell her that her father is alive.” Rowan’s voice breaks on the last word. “No matter what it costs.”

I watch her disappear up the stairs, taking my heart with her. When her footsteps fade, I collapse onto the couch, bone-deep exhaustion finally claiming me. My last thought before darkness takes me is a question that has no good answer:

How do you choose between dying free or living in chains?

51

ROWAN

I wake up in our marital bed with my husband’s scent still clinging to the sheets like a curse.

I spent three days running from him, and where did it get me? Right back in his fortress, breathing his carefully regulated oxygen, trapped between Vince’s FBI nightmare and his empty promises to change. A promise I’ve heard so many times I could recite it in my sleep.

Men like him don’t change.

They just find better excuses for their monstrosity.

I stare at the ceiling. The unbearable weight of our broken marriage presses down on my chest. The rage I felt discovering Vince’s plans to murder my father hasn’t disappeared—it’s just been pushed aside by the more immediate threat of federal prison.

Always another fucking crisis to navigate. Always another reason to put off addressing the rot at the core of us.

God, this life is wearing on me in ways I never thought I could handle. I feel myself coming apart at the seams. The only question that remains is whether the pieces of me that are fraying into nothingness are essential or not. Is there a soul beneath all this shit? Does Vince have one?

Or am I a broken, empty shell, just like him?

Downstairs, I find Vince in his study, freshly showered, hand bandaged, dark circles forming crescent moons beneath his eyes. No trace of the raw, bleeding creature from last night. He’s put his armor back on.

“Good morning,” he says, voice careful, neutral. “Coffee?”

“I’m not here to pretend everything is hunky-fucking-dory, Vince.” I remain standing in the doorway, unwilling to enter his domain. “I’m here because federal prison is worse for Sofiya than a father who plots murders behind her mother’s back.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t take the bait. “Carver will be expecting my answer by this afternoon. We need a plan.”

“And what exactly do you propose? Turning rat against my father?” I fold my arms and lean against the wall. “Or spending the next thirty years in prison while I explain to our daughter why Daddy can only see her through bulletproof glass?”

“I thought you’d have an opinion beyond sarcasm,” he says, eyes like blue fire. “Since you were so fucking eager to work with Carver before.”

The air between us vibrates with resentment. We’re poison to each other now, but still breathing the same toxic air.

“Fine,” I say, crossing my arms. “Let’s talk strategy.”

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