Page 157 of Filthy Lies

“On us. On everything that’s happened.” I step back, creating distance between us. “I’m trying, Vince. I’m trying to find a way forward where we both survive this.”

Something flickers across his face—hope, maybe, or suspicion. With Vince, it’s often hard to distinguish between the two.

“There is no ‘forward’ until my father pays for what he’s done.” He cracks his knuckles. “When Arkady is stronger, when I’ve confirmed who the snipers were and who paid them, I’m ending this. Once and for all.”

“And the FBI? The deal you just made?”

“Fuck the FBI.” He combs a hand through his hair. “Some things matter more than deals.”

I bite my tongue to keep from arguing. This isn’t the time or place to reveal my hand. “We should get back to Sofiya,” I say instead. “She was crying for you this morning.”

Vince nods, some of the tension leaving his shoulders at the mention of our daughter. At least we still have that—this shared, fierce love for the life we created together.

As we walk toward the exit, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I check it discreetly.

A message from Daniil:Meeting arranged. Tomorrow night. Neutral location. Grigor agreed, thinks it was my idea.

And suddenly, the stakes crystalize before me. I have less than twenty-four hours to convince Vince to meet with the man he’s hated his entire adult life. Less than twenty-four hours to prepare evidence that could destroy his father. Less than twenty-four hours to salvage what remains of our family before Vince’s vengeance tears it all apart.

“You’re quiet,” Vince observes as we reach the car.

I look up at him, this beautiful, broken man I’ve chosen despite every warning, every red flag, every voice of reason.

“Just thinking,” I say, sliding into the passenger seat.

“About?”

My fingers brush against my phone, against the message burning a hole in my pocket. “About what it means to be a family,” I answer. “And how far I’d go to protect ours.”

Vince starts the engine, his profile sharp against the fading afternoon light. “You’d be surprised what people are capable of when they’re protecting what’s theirs.”

I turn to look out the window, hiding the darkness I know is visible in my eyes. “No, Vince,” I whisper. “I think I’ve just about seen it all by now.”

58

VINCE

I stand at the floor-to-ceiling window of the Akopov Industries skyscraper, sixty-seven floors above Manhattan, watching an empire crumble in real time.

“Holy fuck,” Boris mutters beside me, his breath fogging the glass. “They’re going in hard.”

Below us, the scene unfolds. FBI tactical teams in black body armor pour into the Solovyov headquarters like a colony of ants devouring a carcass. Vehicles with flashing lights block every intersection. Agents with assault rifles create a perimeter tight enough to suffocate.

The Akopov Bratva council watches on in silence. They stand speechless as federal agents drag Anton Solovyov himself out in handcuffs.

“This is unprecedented,” Mikhail says, turning to me. “How did the feds get so much intel?”

I shrug, careful to keep my expression neutral. “Perhaps Solovyov security was not as air-tight as they believed.”

What I don’t say:I handed Carver enough evidence to bury the Solovyovs under the fucking prison, tied with a neat bow and delivered on a silver platter.

The council members press their faces against the glass like children at an aquarium, watching the Solovyovs’ demise with a mixture of fascination and dread. They don’t realize they’re witnessingmyhandiwork. My vengeance served cold on a silver platter while I maintain clean hands.

This is what separates boys from men. Animals from gods.

“Someone got to them,” Konstantin mutters, stroking his salt-and-pepper beard. “Someone inside.”

I turn from the window, facing the twelve men who represent the senior leadership of what’s left of our organization. Twelve men who would slit my throat without hesitation if they knew I’d cooperated with the FBI. Twelve men who still believe I’m just like them.

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