Page 36 of Filthy Lies

“Agent Carver will be back,” I warn. “And he won’t be alone next time.”

“Let him come.” Vince’s snarl is steel and smoke, lethal, dark. “We’ll be ready.”

15

VINCE

My phone vibrates while I’m watching Rowan feed Sofiya. With that simple buzz, the quiet domesticity of the moment—my wife’s sing-song humming, our daughter’s tiny grunts as she nurses—goes up in fucking smoke.

“Vin.” Arkady’s voice is taut. Warning bells immediately ring in my head. “We have a situation at the medical facility.”

“What kind of situation?” I step out of the bedroom, keeping my voice pitched low so Rowan can’t hear me over her lullabies.

“Yuri Belyaev was caught trying to access Rowan’s medical records.”

My blood freezes. Yuri Belyaev—one of my father’s most loyal captains. A man who wouldn’t take a piss without Andrei’s explicit, written permission.

“How do you know it was Rowan’s records specifically?”

“Because the moron asked for them by name. ‘Patient file for Rowan Akopov.’ The docs alerted security immediately.”

“Where is themudaknow?”

“Being held at the warehouse on Canal. Thought you’d want to handle this personally.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Make sure he’s comfortable.”

I don’t bother explaining. Arkady understands exactly what kind of comfort I mean.

I end the call and take a deep breath, composing myself before returning to the bedroom.

“Everything okay?” Rowan asks, looking up. She’s burping Sofiya, but her brow is furrowed as she glances at me.

“Business matter,” I say smoothly. “I need to step out for a few hours.”

“Anything serious?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.” I lean down to kiss her forehead, then Sofiya’s. “I won’t be long.”

“Be careful,” she orders.

“Always am.” I force a smile I don’t feel. “Get some rest. You look tired.”

She nods, already turning her attention back to Sofiya. The sight of them together—my entire world condensed into two beings—fuels the cold fury building inside me.

My father has broken our arrangement. Again.

This time, there will be consequences.

The warehouse on Canal Street has served as our interrogation site for three generations of Akopovs. The basement level is soundproofed, the drains built into the concrete floor designed for easy cleaning.

Yuri sits tied to a metal chair in the center of the room, his wrists secured to the armrests with zip ties. His eyes widen when he sees me.

“Vincent,” he begins, “this is a misunderstanding?—”

I strike him across the face before he can finish. The crack of my knuckles against his cheekbone echoes in the sparse room.

“Let’s skip the part where you lie to me,” I suggest, shrugging off my suit jacket and handing it to Arkady. I roll up my sleeves methodically. “We both know why you’re here.”

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