Page 166 of Filthy Lies

“I’ll give you my answer in one hour,” I tell him. “Now, get the fuck out of my study.”

When he leaves, I pour myself three fingers of whiskey and down it in one burning swallow. The alcohol doesn’t touch the fire in my veins, the rage that’s been my constant companion since Arkady took that bullet for me.

I text my lawyer the details, then step out to find Rowan.

She’s waiting for me by the bar, a waking dream in emerald silk that makes my cock stir despite the circumstances. Her eyes ask the question before her lips can form the words.

“Carver’s offering a modified agreement,” I tell her quietly. “No wire, no active intelligence gathering. Just compliance requirements for our legitimate businesses.”

Hope flickers across her face. “That’s good, right?”

“It’s not prison,” I concede. “But it’s still a leash.”

“A leash we can work with,” she says, her hand finding mine beneath the bar. “What do you need from me?”

God, I love this woman. No hesitation, no judgment—just immediate, unwavering support. What did I do to deserve her?

Nothing. That’s the answer. I’ve done nothing to deserve Rowan St. Clair. I’ve only taken and taken and taken, bleeding her dry of her innocence, her normalcy, her chance at a life unmarked by violence.

And yet she stays. She fights. She fucks me like she’s dying for it and challenges me like she’s unafraid of the consequences.

I didn’t think I could ever love something as much as I love her.

“I need you to keep Grigor distracted,” I tell her. “I don’t want him getting wind of this until I’ve had a chance to negotiate the final terms.”

She nods, already scanning the room for her father. “I’ll handle it. How long do you need?”

“An hour. Maybe less.”

“Consider it done.” She squeezes my hand once, then slips away, moving through the crowd with effortless grace.

I watch her go, marveling at how seamlessly she’s adapted to this life. The frightened marketing assistant who stumbled into my office five years ago has become a force of nature, capable of manipulating Bratva leaders and FBI agents with equal skill.

I’ve created a monster. A beautiful, brilliant monster who matches me step for step in this blood-soaked dance.

My phone pings with a text from my lawyer:Agreement looks solid. Negotiate for quarterly audits instead of monthly and push for higher cash transaction limits for international operations. Otherwise, take the deal.

I find Carver by the bar, nursing a scotch that I paid for. “I’ll sign,” I tell him without preamble. “With two conditions.”

His eyebrows rise. “Didn’t we just discuss how you’re not in a position to make demands?”

“Quarterly audits, not monthly. And the cash transaction limit needs to be twenty-five grand for international operations. The Costa Rica project requires flexibility.”

He considers this, swirling his drink. “Quarterly audits are acceptable. Fifteen K for cash transactions, and that’s my final offer.”

I extend my hand. “Deal.”

As we shake, I feel a weight lift from my shoulders. Not completely—never completely—but enough to breathe.

“I’ll have the revised agreement sent over tomorrow,” Carver says. “In the meantime, congratulations on your alliance with the Petrovs. Or whatever you’re calling it. Quite the political maneuver.” He downs the rest of his scotch and sets the glass on the bar. “I’ll see myself out.”

I watch him leave. What a strange victory this is. The Solovyovs are finished. Barkov’s organization is on its last legs. And the Akopov-Petrov alliance, however new and fragile, gives us strength against future threats.

For the first time in months, I allow myself to feel like perhaps the end is in sight.

Only one piece on the board has yet to fall.

I find Rowan again. Our daughter is drowsy in her arms, her head resting on her mother’s shoulder, dark curls spilling over emerald silk.

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