Page 34 of Filthy Lies

“Yes. My daughter was born in a… facility of some kind. Industrial, I think. I wasn’t exactly in a state to take detailed notes.”

The tension in his face eases. “Of course. Can you tell me what you remember about the people who took you?”

I take a careful sip of water. Everything about this conversation is choreographed—what I’ll say, what I won’t say, how much emotion to show or to hide. Vince and I practiced for hours.

“They spoke Russian,” I begin. “The woman who watched me said the word ‘Solovyov’ at one point. I gathered they were some kind of criminal organization.”

Carver’s pen pauses above his notepad. “Solovyov? You’re certain?”

I nod. “I’ve picked up a little Russian since marrying Vincent. Enough to understand that much.”

“And what did they want from you?”

“They said I was ‘leverage.’ That my husband would pay anything to get us back.”

Carver studies me. The tiniest crinkle of his eyes at the corners belies the gears whirring in his head. “Mrs. Akopov, are you aware that the Solovyov organization is a major criminal enterprise with ties to human trafficking, drugs, and weapons smuggling?”

“I know they’re dangerous people,” I say carefully. “That much was obvious. Y’know, from thekidnappingpart of things.”

“And are you aware that they have a long-standing rivalry with your husband’s family?”

The trap is obvious. I maintain eye contact, refusing to flinch. “My husband runs a shipping company and real estate development firm, Agent Carver. If criminals targeted me because they think he has money, that doesn’t make him a criminal.”

Carver’s mouth twitches. “Mrs. Akopov. Rowan. May I be frank?”

“Please.”

“I find it hard to believe you’ve been married to Vincent Akopov for over six months and remain completely unaware of his family’s connections.”

“What connections would those be?”

“Your husband comes from a long line of Russian immigrants with ties to organized crime dating back generations. The Akopov family isn’t just wealthy—they’re powerful in the kind of ways that don’t appear on tax returns. And they’re dangerous in the kind of way that usually leads to unmarked graves, if you catch my drift.”

My heart pounds, but I maintain my composure. “Agent Carver, I’ve just survived a traumatic kidnapping and given birth in captivity. If you have questions about my husband’s business dealings, perhaps you should direct them to him or his lawyers.”

“I’m more interested in your role,” he demurs, leaning forward. “Did you know that withholding information in a federal investigation is a crime?”

“I’m not withholding anything. I’m telling you what happened to me.”

“Are you?” His eyes bore into mine. “Or are you telling me what your husband instructed you to say?”

A flare of anger scythes through the carefully rehearsed script in my head. I take a breath to temper it.

Then I veer off-course.

“Do you have children, Agent Carver?”

He blinks, momentarily thrown. “No.”

“Then you can’t possibly understand what it’s like to give birth on a filthy mattress while strangers with guns decide whether you live or die.” My voice remains level, but it carries a glistening edge that wasn’t there before. “You can’t imagine holding your newborn daughter and wondering if she’ll ever see her father, or if you’ll both be killed once you’ve outlived your usefulness.”

I lean forward, matching his intensity. “I’m not a victim because of who I married, Agent Carver. I’m a victim because criminals decided to use me as a pawn in whatever game they’re playing. And if you want to solve actual crimes instead of pursuing personal vendettas, you might consider investigating the people who took me, not the man who saved me.”

Carver sits back in his chair. Those eyes remain crinkled. “You’ve changed since we last spoke, Mrs. Akopov. You seem… different.”

“Trauma does that to a person.”

“So does indoctrination.”

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