Page 85 of Filthy Lies

I guide her to the table where dinner waits. She sits, fingers fidgeting with her napkin.

“This is… unexpected.” She tries for a smile. “But nice.”

“When was the last time we had a proper meal together? Just the two of us?” I pour more wine into her glass. “Before Sofiya, certainly.”

“Before a lot of things.” Her green eyes search mine. “Vince, is everything okay?”

“That depends.” I reach across the table and capture her hand. “On whether my wife trusts me enough to be honest with me.”

The blood drains from her face. “What do you mean?”

“Tell me about your meeting today, Rowan.”

For a second there, I think she might deny it. Might spin another lie to cover the first.

But that’s not my Rowan. Not anymore.

“How did you know?” she asks, voice barely audible.

“I know everything.” I bring her hand to my lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “The question is why you thought you needed to keep it from me.”

She withdraws her hand slowly. “Would you have let me go if I’d told you?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s why.”

Her honesty disarms me. No excuses. No frantic justifications. Just the simple truth that she did what she thought was necessary, consequences be damned.

Just like me.

“What exactly did you offer Carver?” I keep my voice neutral despite the molten rage still simmering beneath the surface.

“Information on the Solovyovs in exchange for immunity for us and a path to legitimacy for your operations.” She meets my eyes directly. “I didn’t give them anything they could use against you. I just… opened a door.”

I take a slow sip of wine, considering. “And why would you do that without consulting me first?”

“Because sometimes, you’re so busy protecting us that you forget to protect yourself.” Her voice strengthens. “I’m tired of watching you try to be both the man your father created and the man I fell in love with. And I thought, if I could eliminate one threat, maybe you’d have room to breathe.”

Something in my chest cracks open, spilling warmth through veins that have run cold for decades.

“You could have been arrested,” I remind her. “Taken from Sofiya. From me.”

“It was a calculated risk.”

“It was fucking stupid,” I snap, the facade cracking. “You have no idea the games these people play, the traps they set.”

“I didn’t promise them anything concrete. I didn’t sign anything. I opened a channel of communication that we can exploit if needed.”

I study her face—the stubborn set of her jaw, the defiance in her eyes.

She’s not sorry. Not really. She’s only sorry she got caught.

I don’t have it in me to be mad at her.

“Come here,” I order, pushing back from the table.

She hesitates, then rises, moving around to stand before me. I pull her onto my lap, one hand gripping her hip, the other tangling in her hair to tug her head back.

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