Page 153 of Filthy Lies

“Follow the money.” I shrug. “That’s your job, isn’t it? I’ve given you the breadcrumbs. Don’t blame me if you’re too fucking incompetent to follow the trail.”

My phone vibrates again. I check it under the desk.Patient experiencing arrhythmia. Preparing for possible cardiac intervention.

I grit my molars. Arkady is fighting for his life while I sit here playing games with this bureaucratic weasel.

“Something urgent?” Carver inquires when he notices my distraction.

“Nothing that concerns you.” I slide the flash drive across the polished wood. “The rest is there. Bank records, wiretaps, surveillance photos. Enough to put Anton Solovyov and his kin away until his grandchildren have grandchildren.”

Carver picks up the drive and rolls it between his fingers like a cigar. “Hm. It all seems so painless for you.”

“Not for them.” I smile, cold and sharp. “Now, are we done? Or would you like to continue wasting my time with questions you already know the answers to?”

Carver gathers the files and tucks them into his briefcase. “For now, we’re done. But this arrangement isn’t a one-time deal, Mr.Akopov. The Bureau will be in touch when we need additional assistance.”

“No.” I stand, towering over him. “This is it. One delivery, as agreed. You got what you wanted. Now, I get what I want: my family left alone.”

“That’s not how this works.” He stands. “You work for me now, Vincent. I’m the thin blue line between you and a concrete fucking cell. You don’t like it? Tough fucking shit.”

Then the smug son of a bitch has the audacity to wink.

“Pleasure doing business with you, my friend.”

He whistles as he leaves.

I wait until he’s gone before I allow my fist to unclench and my grimace to fade into a half-smile. It’s not a victory—that won’t come for a while yet. But Carver thinks he’s gotten everything he’s wanted. He’ll learn—not for a long time, of course, but he will eventually learn—that no one gets the best of Vincent Akopov.

He’s dancing tomytune.

Not the other way around.

When I emerge from my office, the rest of the house is quiet, most of the lights off. It’s late. I should go straight to bed, try to grab what little sleep I can before whatever storms tomorrow brings.

Instead, I find myself drawn to the soft glow spilling from Sofiya’s room.

I pause in the doorway, tucked just out of sight. Rowan sits in the rocking chair by the window with our daughter curled against her chest as she reads from a book of fairy tales. Her voice is soft, melodic, conjuring worlds of princes and dragons and happy endings that have never existed in our reality.

Sofiya spots me first. “Papa!” she squeals, wiggling to get down from Rowan’s lap.

The sound of her voice—so innocent, so full of unquestioning love—pierces straight through the armor I’ve worn all day. I drop to one knee as she crawls across the room, catching her small body against mine as she crashes into my arms.

“Hello, little warrior,” I murmur against her dark curls. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

She points back at her mother by way of explanation.

“I see that.” I glance up at Rowan, who watches us with an expression I can’t quite read—part tenderness, part wariness. “One more story, then bed, okay?”

Sofiya reaches for the book in her mom’s hands. Rowan surrenders it, then Sofi passes it over to me.

I look to Rowan for permission. After a moment’s hesitation, she nods.

Ten minutes later, Sofiya’s eyes are drooping as I finish the tale of a princess who spurns an arrogant knight’s help and saves herself from a tower. Not the traditional ending, but this is Rowan’s choice of bedtime stories, and I must admit: I’m starting to see the appeal.

When we step into the hallway, closing Sofi’s door behind us, awkward silence descends.

“I’m still angry with you,” she says.

“I know.” My thumb traces the delicate bones of her wrist, feeling her pulse quicken beneath my touch.

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