Page 64 of Filthy Lies

I hesitate. Anastasia and I have an unusual relationship, to say the least. It’s not exactly tense. But I wouldn’t go so far as calling us friends, either.

“Come in,” I say finally, gesturing toward the living room. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Wine?”

“Wine. Please. A lot of it.” She collapses onto the sofa, a gesture so uncharacteristically vulnerable that alarm bells start ringing in my head.

“Is everything okay?” I ask as I pour her a generous glass of Cabernet.

“No.” She accepts the wine and immediately chugs a long swallow. “Everything is completely fucked.”

I raise my eyebrows. I’ve never heard Anastasia swear before. “What happened?”

She stares into her wine glass for a long moment before looking up at me with haunted eyes. “Daniel is Daniil Petrov.”

Oh.

“I know,” I say carefully.

She just laughs bitterly. “You knew? For how long?”

“Vince told me a little while ago.” I settle into the armchair across from her. “I assumed you knew, too, considering your relationship.”

“Well, I didn’t.” She takes another sip of wine. “I found out last night. He’s been lying to me for years. Pretending to be this… this normal American surgeon when all along he’s been Grigor Petrov’s son.”

“How did you find out?”

“I overheard him on the phone, speaking Russian.” She laughs like it hurts her to do anything but that. “Fluent, native Russian. About Bratva business.”

I study her carefully. “And now, you’re here because…?”

“Because you’re the only person who might understand.” Anastasia looks at me directly. “You married a Bratva man knowing exactly what he is.” She sets her glass down. “How? How do you reconcile it?”

I suppress a laugh. Of all the people I expected to come seeking relationship advice, Anastasia Kuznetsov was at the bottom of the list.

“It’s not about reconciling,” I say after a moment. “It’s about… acceptance.”

“Acceptance of what? That the man I love is completely full of shit and our entire romance is a lie?”

“That the man you love exists in a world where lying about his identity might be necessary.” I lean forward. “Daniel—or Daniil—is a Petrov. You’re from a Bratva family that’s allied with the Akopovs. Those families have been enemies for generations.”

“So he couldn’t trust me with the truth?”

“Could you have trusted him with it when you first met? Really?”

She falls silent, considering.

“Daniil risked everything to be with you,” I continue. “He crossed family lines, betrayed his father’s trust, put himself in constant danger—all for you.”

“He still lied.”

“Yes. He did.” I refill her wine glass. “The question is whether that lie negates everything else.”

Anastasia takes another sip of wine, smaller this time. “How do you do it?” she asks softly.

“Honestly?” I adjust in my seat. “Some days, I don’t know. There are mornings I wake up wondering if this is really my life—if I’m really raising a baby in a compound with armed guards, married to a man who kills people in boardrooms.”

She nods, waiting for me to continue.

“But then there are moments—Vince reading Sofiya a bedtime story, or when he looks at me when he thinks I don’t notice—that make everything else fade away.” I shrug. “I’m not saying it’s easy. It’s not. It’s messy and terrifying and sometimes, I think I must be insane to have chosen this.”

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