Page 27 of Filthy Lies

“I’m going to do what’s necessary.”

Rowan moves Sofiya to her other arm, wincing slightly. She’s still healing, still raw from childbirth. The doctors said it would take weeks for her body to recover.

But we don’t have weeks; we have hours. Minutes, maybe. Mere fragments of safety before the next storm comes fucking plowing in to upend everything.

“Just… goddammit, Vince, just come back to us,” she says finally. “That’s all I ask.”

I lean forward and kiss her softly, breathing in the scent of her—milk and soap, velvet and purity.

“Always,” I promise.

As I drive toward my father’s estate, I try to organize the chaos in my head. Every cell in my body screams for retribution. Blood on white marble, but this time, it will be his, and there will be rivers of it, oceans of it, enough to drown him and every man who ever helped carry out his bidding.

But the rage is tempered with something I’m far less familiar with.

Responsibility.

I owe things to people now. I have promises to uphold. And that complicates everything.

Because the man Rowan believes in wouldn’t murder his own father in cold blood.

But the man I’ve been for thirty-one years wants exactly that.

Which man wins?

The gates of my father’s estate—my childhood home—swing open as I approach. The guards recognize my car. They’ve been instructed to let me pass no matter what.

They don’t know that this might be the last time their boss draws breath.

I park in front of the main house and shut off the engine. For a moment, I just sit there, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles bleach white.

For Rowan. For Sofiya.

Carve those words into my fucking bones—they’re all that matters now.

The house is oddly quiet as I enter. No staff visible. No security inside. Just the hollow echo of my footsteps across marble floors I’ve walked since I was a boy.

My father is waiting in his study, of course. Where else would he be? The same place where he’s delivered every disappointment,every punishment, every lesson in what it means to be an Akopov.

I don’t knock.

He looks up from his desk as I enter. His silver eyebrows lift in mock surprise. “Vincent. What an?—”

“Save it,” I say, closing the door behind me. “You know exactly why I’m here.”

He leans back in his leather chair, studying me. He doesn’t appear worried.

Either he’s very confident or very, very stupid.

“I assume this is about your wife’s unfortunate… adventure.” He reaches for his crystal tumbler of whiskey, taking a leisurely sip.

My gun is in my hand before I consciously decide to draw it. The barrel points steadily at his forehead.

“‘Unfortunate adventure’?” My voice, when it emerges, is dangerously soft. “You had her kidnapped while she was in labor.”

He sighs, as if I’m overreacting. “Put the gun away, son. Let’s discuss this like civilized men.”

“There’s nothing civilized about what happened.” I take a step closer, gun still raised. “She could have died. Our daughter could have died.”

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