Page 33 of Filthy Lies

“You don’t trust me?”

“It’s not about trust. It’s about protection.”

A small burp from Sofiya breaks the tension. We both look at her, this tiny miracle we created together.

“I know you want to keep us locked away from the world,” I say more gently. “To build walls so high no one can ever reach us again. But Vincent, we can’t live like that. No one can.”

His hand comes up to cup Sofiya’s head. His touch is infinitely tender despite the turmoil in his eyes.

“I almost lost you both,” he rasps. “I can’t… I won’t take that risk again.”

I place my hand over his. “If I don’t talk to Carver, he’ll make his own conclusions. And those conclusions will place you at the center of everything that happened.”

Vince is silent for a long moment. Finally, he nods once. “Alright. You meet with him—at a location of my choosing, with my security nearby.”

“Agreed. And I tell him an edited version of the truth. Enough to redirect his attention to the Solovyovs without implicating you or your business.”

“No details about the Bratva. Nothing about my father.”

“Of course not. I’ll keep it focused on the kidnapping itself.”

He scrutinizes me. “You’re not the same woman you were before all this, are you?”

I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry. “No,” I admit after a moment. “I’m not.”

“Good,” he says simply. “The old Rowan wouldn’t survive in this world.”

He’s not wrong. I am different. Harder edges where I used to bend, plated armor where I once had raw nerves. The transformation isn’t just physical—it’s bone-deep, cellular.

This new Rowan wears her changes like invisible tattoos.

“The meeting is set for tomorrow afternoon,” Vince continues. “We’ll go over your statement tonight. Practice what you’ll say, prepare for his questions.”

I nod, but a shadow of doubt creeps in. “Vince… how deep am I in your world now? Really?”

His hand finds mine, fingers interlacing. “As deep as I am.”

It’s not the answer I wanted. But it’s the truth.

And these days, I’ll take truth over comfort every time.

14

ROWAN

Agent Carver looks exactly as I remember—tall, lean, with penetrating eyes and a perpetually skeptical expression. He sits across from me at a private dining room in an upscale Manhattan restaurant—Vince’s choice of venue. Let no one say he lacks taste.

“Mrs. Akopov,” he greets me, his gaze flickering briefly to my modest black dress. “You’re looking well, considering the circumstances.”

“Thank you for meeting me here,” I reply coolly. “I’m still recovering, and being close to home is helpful.”

He nods, opening a folder on the table. “I understand you were abducted from your home two weeks ago, while in labor?”

“Yes.”

“And you gave birth while in captivity?”

The memory pings—pain, fear, blood on concrete. I force it down.

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