Page 62 of Filthy Lies

“No,” I admit. “Probably not.”

“I considered it,” he continues. “When I learned where you were working, I had people watching more closely. But by then…” He glances at Vince. “It was already too late.”

Vince’s jaw tightens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, Akopov, that you had already marked her.” Grigor’s voice holds no accusation, just statement of fact. “I recognized the look.”

“What look?”

“The one I once had for Margaret.” His eyes return to me. “By the time I could have intervened, you were already falling into his orbit. And I know enough about women with St. Clair blood to know they cannot be directed against their will.”

I find myself chuckling despite everything. “On that, we can agree.”

Sofiya chooses that moment to wake fully, her tiny fists waving as she lets out a cranky wail. I stand immediately.

“She’s hungry,” I explain. “We should go.”

Grigor rises as well. “Of course.”

An awkward silence falls. What’s the protocol for saying goodbye to the biological father you just met? A handshake seems too formal, a hug too intimate. I settle for meeting his eyes directly.

“Thank you,” I say. “For explaining. For the photographs.”

He nods once. “I would like to see you again. Both of you.”

Vince’s hand finds the small of my back. “We’ll consider it.”

“I don’t recall asking you, Akopov.”

“But you need my permission all the same.” Vince steps closer to Grigor, his voice dropping. “Don’t mistake this meeting for an alliance. You may be her blood, but I am her husband. I am Sofiya’s father. Remember that.”

Grigor doesn’t back down. “As you are remembering that I could have eliminated you years ago, had I chosen.”

“You certainly could have tried.”

Their faces are inches apart now, decades of Bratva rivalry crackling between them. Sofiya’s cries grow louder, and my patience thins.

“Enough. Both of you.” I step between them, Sofiya clutched to my chest. “We’re leaving.”

Grigor steps back first. “Think about what I said, Rowan.”

“I will.”

Without another word, we leave, Vince’s arm tight around my waist, guards falling into formation around us. In the car, Sofiya finally quiets after I nurse her, her little eyes drifting closed as milk-drunk contentment overtakes her.

“You’re quiet,” Vince observes, watching me from across the car.

“Processing.”

“He’s manipulating you.”

I sigh, stroking Sofiya’s cheek. “Is he? Or is he just a father who thought he was doing the right thing by staying away?”

Vince’s face darkens. “Don’t tell me you believe that story.”

“I don’t know what to believe anymore.” I stare out the window at the passing city. “But I saw it, Vince. I saw myself in him.”

“You’re nothing like him.”

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