Page 51 of Filthy Lies

“There’s one more thing,” Arkady adds with a wince, like he’s worried this last straw will be what pushes me over the edge. “Nikolai Barkov’s men have been moving around Brighton Beach. Gathering. Like they’re preparing for something.”

Fuck.

The sun is just beginning to rise when Arkady arrives in person, his face strained as he drops a stack of files on my desk.

“The lead bank’s president claims they received information suggesting the project was a money laundering operation,” he explains.

“What information?”

“Financial records and internal communications, mostly. Some of it manufactured, some of it real but taken wildly out of context.” Arkady spreads out several documents. “Whoever did this had access to material only someone inside our organization would have.”

I examine the financial records, anger building with each page I turn. These are sophisticated forgeries—transaction historiesand wire transfers doctored to make legitimate business dealings look suspicious.

“This is professional work,” I mutter. “Not Barkov. He’s always been a blunt instrument, even before we sawed off his edges.”

“I agree.” Arkady leans against the desk. “This is someone with intimate knowledge of our operations.”

“My father.”

Arkady’s expression darkens. “Your father is still under house arrest. His communications are monitored.”

“Monitored, not eliminated. He still has loyalists.”

“True, but this doesn’t feel like Andrei’s style, either. Too passive.”

I stand and pace to the window. The betrayal burns in my chest. I’d shown mercy to Kevin Peterson—against every instinct beaten into me since childhood—because Rowan believed I could be better than my father.

And now, Peterson is dead anyway, the Costa Rica project is in ruins, and I’ll have to face her disappointment. After everything she’s been through—the kidnapping, giving birth in captivity, discovering her biological father—this feels like one more failure I can’t protect her from.

“The timing is too perfect,” I say. “Kevin’s death, the financing collapse, Barkov’s movements. Someone’s making a play against us.”

“But who has that level of access?”

“That’s what we need to find out.” I turn back to him. “Start with the people who knew about Kevin’s relocation. That was a closely guarded operation.”

Arkady nods. “What about the banks? Should we try to salvage the financing?”

I shake my head. “Too late for that, and too pointless. We need to identify the leak before we can rebuild.”

The sound of a door opening makes me look up. Rowan stands in the doorway, Sofiya clutched against her chest. She’s wearing one of my t-shirts, her hair loose around her shoulders. Even exhausted, she’s an angel.

And I’m about to disappoint her.

“What’s going on?” she asks, taking in the scattered papers and our grim expressions.

“Arkady, give us a minute.”

He nods and steps out, closing the door behind him.

Rowan approaches my desk, shifting Sofiya to her other arm. “Vince, what’s happened?”

I come around the desk and guide her to the leather sofa against the wall. “Kevin Peterson is dead.”

Her eyes go huge. “What? How?”

“Executed. Professional hit.”

“But… but you sent him to Costa Rica. You gave him a chance.”

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