Page 163 of Filthy Lies

It’s darkly funny to watch the old pieces of yourself flake off and drift away. There’s a new person inside, as it turns out. Someone you never thought you were capable of being.

And yet you are.

Iam.

I stand in the glittering ballroom of the Akopov Manhattan compound, wearing a gleaming emerald dress, with an ocean of attendees eyeing my every move. The guests assembled today have no idea they’re witnessing history unfold before them—the careful dismantling of generations of hatred.

“I never thought I’d see the day,” Anastasia murmurs as she appears beside me in a cloud of French perfume. Her cream-colored dress emphasizes her perfect figure, but even more noticeable is the enormous diamond on her finger catching lightwith every gesture. “Vincent Akopov and my soon-to-be father-in-law, sharing the same oxygen without bloodshed.”

“For now,” I say. I’m still a little wary, unable to fully trust the fragile peace that has made tonight possible. “Let’s see if it survives the ceremony.”

The ceremony in question? Formally dissolving Vince’s arrangement with Anastasia and publicly announcing her engagement to Daniil Petrov.

Daniil joins us, sliding an arm around Anastasia’s waist. The tension in his body betrays his nerves. “Your husband hasn’t stopped checking the security feed since we arrived,” he tells me. “Is he expecting trouble?”

“Vince always expects trouble,” I say. “It’s what’s kept him alive this long.”

The murmur of conversation fades as Vince steps to the center of the room, commanding attention without effort. The silver in his black hair catches the light, giving him an otherworldly aura of power.

“Today, we honor tradition while embracing change,” he begins, his voice carrying to every corner. “For too long, our families have been divided by old hatreds, old wrongs.”

I watch the faces around me—Bratva men whose loyalties run generations deep, women whose survival depends on reading the room correctly. They’re confused, uncertain, waiting to see where this leads.

“Anastasia Kuznetsov and I entered into an arrangement that would have united our families through marriage,” Vince continues. “Today, with mutual respect, we dissolve thatagreement—not to sever ties, but to strengthen them through a different bond.”

He gestures toward Daniil and Anastasia. “Daniil Petrov and Anastasia will unite our families in a way that honors their choice, their love. With the blessing of Grigor Petrov and myself.”

The shock ripples through the room like an electric current. Daniil’s true identity as Grigor’s son—long kept secret—is now public knowledge. Most already had some inkling, but it’s a bit of a head trip to hear it spoken into the ether.

“To new beginnings.” Vince raises his glass, eyes finding mine across the room. “And to the bridges that connect us.”

The toast is echoed throughout the room, though I note several of the older Bratva members drink with visible reluctance. Change comes slowly to men who’ve spent decades nursing grudges and counting kills.

It’s alright. They’ll come around one way or another.

With that, Vince bows and steps down from the microphone. The crowd dissolves back into their twos and threes and fours, gossiping about what this might mean for the future of the New York underworld.

I weave through the crowd toward my husband, who has reclaimed Sofiya from Grigor. My daughter rests on his hip, playing with his tie as he converses with a group of businessmen—legitimate ones, carefully invited to witness this very public display of our legitimate connections.

“Mrs. Akopov.” Vince’s smile is automatic when I approach. “The men were just discussing our Costa Rica development.”

“A remarkable venture,” one of them—Thompson from First National—says. “Particularly impressive how quickly you’ve secured the environmental approvals.”

“We believe in responsible development,” I reply. The corporate bullshit flows easily after months of rehearsal. “Sustainability is both good ethicsandgood business.”

Vince’s hand tightens at my waist. A warning.

I turn slightly, following his gaze to the entrance…

… where Agent Carver stands.

He’s surveying the room with a sneer he doesn’t bother hiding. My stomach twists into a knot. The FBI’s presence at what is essentially a Bratva gathering—however disguised as a legitimate social event—is a power move.

“Excuse us,” Vince murmurs to the businessmen. “My daughter needs a moment.”

I take Sofiya from him. Her vocabulary is still small enough to keep her from blabbing about how we use her to worm our way out of social situations, but at the rate she’s growing, that won’t last much longer.

For tonight, though, it remains useful.

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