Page 90 of Filthy Lies

I rise on tiptoes to kiss him, tasting the surrender on his lips. “Thank you.”

The Hamptons property sits isolated on a private stretch of beach. Waves crash against pristine sand just steps from the deck.

Vince carries Sofiya as I spread blankets near the water’s edge, close enough to hear the rhythm of waves but far enough to keep our baby safe.

Armed men patrol the perimeter, nearly invisible among the dunes and surrounding forest. Arkady sits on the deck with binoculars in one hand and a sniper rifle in the other, scanning the horizon.

All necessary precautions.

But for now, I choose not to see them.

Instead, I watch Vince lower himself to the blanket with Sofiya cradled against his chest. His eyes gaze out at the infinite blue of sky and sea with the wonder of someone seeing colors for the first time.

“When was the last time you went to a beach?” I ask.

He shakes his head like I’m better off not knowing. “I’ve been to beaches. Usually for business. Sometimes for disposal.”

“But never just to… be?” I press.

“No.” He touches the sand beside him, letting grains filter through his fingers. “My mother wanted to take me, once. Had it all planned. But my father had other ideas about how a boy becomes a man.”

The shadow that crosses his face tells me everything I need to know about those “ideas.”

“Well,” I say, keeping my voice light, “Sofiya’s first real beach day is yours, too, then.”

I reach for our daughter so that Vince has no choice but to lie here and relax. He’s tense at first, like I figured he would be.

But as the hours pass, something in him uncoils.

He removes his shoes, then his shirt. Lets the sun touch skin that rarely sees daylight. Walks to the water’s edge and stands in the surf, face tilted toward the horizon with an expression of such unexpected peace that my heart cracks open.

Looks like I’m not the only one who’s changing.

When Sofiya wakes from her nap, fussy and curious, Vince carries her to the water. He holds her tiny feet above the foam as waves tickle her toes. Her startled laughter pierces the air—a sound so pure it feels damn near blasphemous against the backdrop of our blood-soaked lives.

And Vince… Vincesmiles. Not the predatory grin that precedes violence or the satisfied smirk after taking my body.

This is a genuine smile. It transforms his face into something almost boyish.

“She likes it,” he notes, wonder creeping into his voice.

“Of course she does.” I join them at the water’s edge. “She’s fearless. Like her father.”

His eyes meet mine over Sofiya’s dark head. “Like her mama, you mean.”

We build sandcastles after lunch—or rather, I show Vince how it’s done while he meticulously constructs something that looks more like a fortress than a fairytale. Sofiya watches from her shaded blanket, occasionally gurgling encouragement.

“You’re building walls again,” I tease with a nod toward his creation.

He looks down at the moat he’s digging. “Force of habit.”

“Try something else,” I suggest. “Build something just for the joy of it, not for protection.”

He studies me for a long moment, then deliberately collapses the walls he’s built, starting fresh with wet sand that he shapes into something rounder, softer.

“Better?” he asks.

I lean over to kiss him, tasting salt on his lips. “Perfect.”

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