Page 168 of Filthy Lies

But we both know it’s too late for that. The moment my father stepped into this room, stupid became inevitable.

As Rowan slips away with our daughter, I turn to Dimitri. “Secure the exits. No one leaves until I say so. And get Carver out of here if he’s still around. I don’t need a federal witness for what’s about to happen.”

My father’s eyes find mine across the room. There’s a cruel twist to his mouth that I’ve seen in the mirror too many times to count.

I cross the ballroom with measured steps. Every eye follows me. Every ear strains to hear. This is Bratva theater, and everyone knows their role—the silent audience to our bloody tragedy.

“Vincent,” he greets, voice carrying just enough to be heard by those nearby. “Quite the celebration. I’m surprised I wasn’t invited. Although perhaps that’s because you’re too busy feeding information to your FBI handlers to remember your own father.”

A ripple runs through the crowd. Faces turn toward me, expectant. Judging.

“Let’s talk in private,” I suggest, though it’s anything but a suggestion.

“Why? Are you afraid of what your associates might hear?” His smile is vicious. “That the heir to the Akopov Bratva is a rat? That he’s sold us all out to save his own skin?”

My hand shoots out, gripping his arm with enough force to make him wince. “My study. Now.”

I drag him through the crowd, past wide eyes and whispered speculation. The damage is already spreading like blood in water, attracting sharks. By tomorrow, regardless of what happens tonight, the rumors will have reached every Bratva family from Brooklyn to Brighton Beach.

When we reach my study, I shove him inside and slam the door behind us.

“You fucking idiot,” I spit, rounding on him. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

He straightens his jacket, unfazed. “I’ve done what was necessary. What you should have expected. Did you really think I wouldn’t find out about your deal with the feds?”

“How?” It’s the only question that matters right now.

“I still have friends in high places. Friends who value tradition, loyalty, the old ways.” He moves to my bar, helping himself to my liquor like he owns the place. “You’ve forgotten what it means to be Bratva, Vincent. You’ve let that whore and her brat soften you.”

I’m across the room before I can think, my hand around his throat, slamming him against the wall hard enough to rattle the paintings. The glass shatters at our feet. But whiskey isn’t the only liquid this rug will absorb tonight.

“That ‘brat’ is your granddaughter,” I growl, inches from his face. “And I am trying to secure her future.”

He chokes out a laugh despite my grip. “By becoming a federal informant? Or making deals with Grigor Petrov? You’re destroying everything I built!”

“I’m saving what’s left of it!” I release him, stepping away before I give in to the urge to crush his windpipe. “The feds were going to bury us. Thirty years in prison, asset forfeiture, RICO charges… I did what I had to do to protect our family.”

“Ourfamily?” He fixes his collar, face flushed with anger or lack of oxygen or both. “You mean your pretty little wife and the child who’s half Petrov? That’s not our family, Vincent. That’s your weakness.”

The rage inside me is so pure it almost feels like calm. I’ve never understood the phrase ‘seeing red’ until now, because my vision actually blurs with it—a crimson haze coating everything in sight. It’s beautiful, in a strange way.

“Let’s talk about whatyou’vedone, hm, Father? You tried to have me killed,” I say. “You ordered Arkady to put a bullet in my head. And when he couldn’t do it, you hired someone to finish the job. A job that nearly killed the most loyal man I’ve ever known.”

“Survival of the fittest.” He shrugs, disgustingly unrepentant. “You were becoming a liability. I did what needed to be done.”

“And now?” I spread my hands. “What do you think happens now, Dad? You’ve come here, announcing to everyone that I’ve been working with the feds. You’ve painted a target on my back, on Rowan’s, on Sofiya’s. Was that your plan? To get us all killed?”

“I want what’s best for the Bratva,” he says.

“Bullshit. You want what’s best foryou. You can’t stand that I’ve taken your place, that I’ve found a better way forward. You’d rather see everything burn than admit I might be right.”

He moves to the window, looking out at the city lights. For a moment, he seems smaller, older. The monster of my childhood reduced to a bitter old man clutching at the remnants of his power.

“I made mistakes,” he admits quietly. “With your mother. With you. But I did what I thought was necessary to prepare you for this life.”

“You beat me unconscious because I cried at Mama’s funeral,” I remind him. “You locked me in a closet for two days when I was twelve because I refused to watch you torture a man who stole from us. You handed me a gun at fourteen and ordered me to execute someone to prove I wasn’t weak.”

“And look at you now.” He turns back to me. “Strong. Feared. Respected.”

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