Page 152 of Filthy Lies

VINCE

I got blood on the paper.

I didn’t mean to. Honestly, I didn’t even realize the stuff was still crusted under my nails. But there it is, as red and stark as it was on the hospital tiles.

A few hours passing by hasn’t done a fucking thing to dull my edge. I’m focused now. I know the way forward.

But the blood is still there.

I see it every time I look down at the evidence I’m assembling for Carver. Crimson ghosts dancing between black and white pages. The perfect metaphor for my life—everything I touch becomes stained.

The files slide under my fingertips. Each document lays out the full extent of my intelligence on Solovyov operations. Photographs place their men at scenes they shouldn’t have been anywhere near and transcripts capture conversations they believed were protected.

It’s the work of a butcher preparing to slaughter a rival family while saving his own.

My hands tremble as I organize the final pieces. Not from fear—fear is a luxury I surrendered a long time ago. No, my hands shake from the barely contained violence surging beneath my skin, desperate for release.

I want my father’s throat beneath my fingers. Not these sterile papers.

“That’s all of it,” I tell Dimitri, who stands silently by the door. He’s taken Arkady’s place. He’s not my best friend, but at least he has the decency to acknowledge the enormity of the shoes he’s been forced to fill. “Make sure the remaining digital files are on this drive. Nothing traceable back to our current operations.”

My phone vibrates for the third time this hour. Arkady’s doctor updating me:Patient stable but critical. Still unconscious. Next 12 hours crucial.

I wonder if my father realizes what he’s created—that, in trying to kill me, he’s forged something far more dangerous. I am no longer his son, no longer bound by whatever twisted loyalty kept me from ending him before. I am a man with nothing left to lose except the two people sleeping under my protection.

And for them, I’ll become the monster he always wanted me to be.

Just not yet. Not today. Today, I dance for the FBI.

Right on cue, the doorbell rings. I feel my jaw tighten to breaking point.

“Mr. Akopov,” Agent Carver greets as he’s shown into my study. “Pleasure to see you’ve made the right choice.”

He grins, and I imagine, just for a moment, how satisfying it would be to feed those bared veneers to him one by one like fucking Tic-Tacs.

“Don’t mistake necessity for choice,” I growl, gesturing to the chair across from my desk. “And don’t mistake cooperation for surrender.”

Carver sprawls in a chair, crossing one leg over the other like we’re old friends catching up over brandy. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.” His eyes flick to the stack of files on my desk. “Is that everything?”

I nod. “Everything you need to crucify the Solovyov family while keeping your promise to leave mine alone.”

He chuckles, the sound like nails dragging down my spine. “That depends entirely on the quality of what you’re providing. I’d hate for your lovely wife and daughter to suffer because you held back critical information.”

My vision tinges red at the edges. “Threaten my family again, and you won’t live long enough to regret it.”

“That sounds suspiciously like a threat to a federal agent,” Carver tuts, but his smirk falters when my expression doesn’t change.

“Just remember who you’re dealing with.”

He clears his throat and reaches for the files. “Let’s see what you’ve brought me.”

I watch as he meticulously examines each document, deliberately taking his time. Each page turn is another test of my restraint. He’s enjoying this—the humiliation of having Vincent Akopov, feared Bratva leader, reduced to an informant.

“This shipment manifest,” he says, tapping a paper with his manicured finger. “It’s dated last year. I was hoping for something fresher.”

“It’s what you’re getting, Carver. Figure it out.”

“And these bank accounts,” he continues, “they lead to shell companies, not directly to Solovyov principals.”

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