Page 29 of Filthy Lies

He barks a laugh. “The council would never agree to this.”

“The council already has.”

His eyes widen fractionally. “What?”

“While you were orchestrating your little demonstration, I was securing their loyalty.” I give him a cold smile. “They know about Costa Rica. They know about the shipping contracts. They know how you’ve been systematically sabotaging our legitimate business ventures.”

“Those ventures are a mistake?—”

“Those ventures are the future,” I cut him off. “And the council sees that now. They understand what you refuse to get through your thick fucking head: We must adapt or die.”

He stares at me. “And if I refuse this arrangement?”

“Then I finish what I started just now.” I gesture to the spot where my gun had been pressed against his skull. “And not one man alive will mourn your passing.”

Silence yawns between us. The grandfather clock in the corner ticks away seconds that feel like hours. Outside, rain begins to fall, pattering against the windows in a gentle rhythm at odds with the tension in the room.

Finally, my father nods. Once. Curtly.

“Very well.” He reaches for his whiskey again. “I accept your terms. For now.”

“No, not ‘for now.’ Forever.” I lean in close enough to see the broken capillaries in his eyes, the bloody remnants of a lifetime of power and fear. “And understand this, Father: if you ever—ever—make a move against Rowan or Sofiya again, our blood relation won’t matter. I’ll end you without hesitation or regret.”

He studies me, searching for weakness. He finds none. “You really would kill me for them, wouldn’t you?”

“In a heartbeat.”

He looks utterly pleased with that. “You truly are my son.”

“No.” I straighten, buttoning my jacket. “I’m better than you ever were.”

I turn and walk toward the door, our business concluded.

“Vincent,” he calls after me.

I pause but don’t turn around.

“The Solovyovs won’t stop. And if Grigor Petrov discovers who your wife really is?—”

“I’ll handle it,” I interrupt. “All of it.”

“We could handle it together.”

At that, I do turn. I look back at him, this man who has shaped so much of who I am. Who taught me to kill, to lead, to command respect and fear in equal measure. This man who nearly got my wife and daughter killed for the sake of a lesson.

“Not anymore,” I tell him. “Those days are over.”

The rain has intensified by the time I return to my car. I sit behind the wheel for a long moment, letting the water drum against the roof, drowning out the chaos in my head.

Part of me—a large part—is disappointed. My father deserves worse than this compromise. He deserves pain for what he put Rowan through. What he put our daughter through.

But the other part—the part that’s growing stronger each day—recognizes that this is the wiser path. For now, at least.

I start the engine and head back to the safe house.

Back to my family.

12

---