Page 63 of Filthy Lies

“Aren’t I?” I turn to face him. “The determination. The protectiveness. The willingness to do whatever it takes to keep my family safe.” I reach for his hand. “Those parts of me that you love so much—they come from somewhere.”

Vince’s fingers intertwine with mine, his grip almost painfully tight. “You got the best parts without the cruelty.”

“Maybe.” I lean my head against his shoulder. “Or maybe I just express it differently.”

“What do you mean?”

“Grigor thought distance was protection. You think constant vigilance is protection.” I look up at him. “Two sides of the same coin, really.”

His brow furrows. “You’re comparing me to Grigor Petrov?”

“I’m observing similarities in how you both love.” I bring his hand to my lips. “And appreciating that you chose a more direct approach.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that while Grigor watched from afar, you stepped into the center of my life.” I smile against his knuckles. “For better or worse, you chose me up close. Messy. Real. Present.”

The tension in his shoulders eases. “Always.”

As the car speeds toward home, I realize I’m clutching the velvet box with Sofiya’s bracelet. I hadn’t meant to take it, yet here it is, warm in my palm.

Perhaps some connections can’t be denied, no matter how complicated they might be.

“What are you thinking?” Vince asks, studying my face.

“That I never expected to find my father.” I rest my cheek against Sofiya’s head. “And I certainly never expected him to have been there all along.”

“Do you wish you’d known sooner?”

I consider this for a long moment, watching the city blur outside our windows. “No,” I decide finally. “I think everything happened when it needed to happen.”

Vince’s arm is warm and comforting around me. “Including us?”

I smile, finding his eyes—blue meeting my green, Akopov meeting Petrov, present meeting past.

“Yes,” I whisper. “Especially us.”

25

ROWAN

The knock on the door comes when I’m putting Sofiya down for her afternoon nap.

“Sleep tight, little one,” I whisper. “Mama loves you.”

Another knock, more insistent this time.

I slip out of the nursery and close the door gently behind me. The compound is crawling with security, so whoever’s knocking has already been cleared.

Still, I’m surprised to find Anastasia Kuznetsov standing in my foyer when I round the corner.

She looks… disheveled. Not a word I’d typically associate with the polished Bratva princess who once sneered at me across a Michelin-starred dinner table.

Her normally perfect blonde hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail. Her eyes are rimmed with red, mascara slightly smudged. She’s wearing jeans—Levi’s, not designer—and a simple white blouse.

I blink. “… Anastasia?”

“I need to talk to you.” Her voice cracks. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

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