Filthy Promises: Chapter 17

Vince returns from his conversation with his father looking more tense than when he left.

I try to decipher what passed between them, but his face is a marble mask once again. All business. All control.

“Everything okay?” I ask when he rejoins me at the bar.

“Fine.” He tosses back the remainder of his scotch and orders another. “My father has… opinions.”

“About me?”

His eyes flick to mine. “About everything.”

A server passes with a tray of champagne flutes. I grab one, needing something to do with my hands, even though the alcohol I’ve already had is buzzing in my veins, casting a pleasant golden haze over everything happening in and around me.

“He didn’t seem thrilled to see me,” I say carefully.

Vince’s mouth quirks. “My father is rarely thrilled about anything.”

“What did he want to talk to you about?”

“Nothing that concerns you.” His tone makes it clear the subject is closed.

I take a sip of champagne, feeling the bubbles dance on my tongue. This is probably the most expensive drink I’ve ever had. Everything about tonight feels surreal—the dress I’m wearing, the company I’m keeping, the way Vince’s eyes keep returning to me despite the room full of people vying for his attention.

“Come,” he says, placing his hand at the small of my back again. “There’s someone else you should meet.”

I let him guide me through the crowd, hyperaware of his touch, the heat of his palm through the silk. It feels possessive in a way that should offend me but somehow doesn’t.

Come to think of it, all of this should offend me but somehow doesn’t. Vince dressed me up like a Barbie doll, but not only did I not balk, I actually can’t stop looking at myself in every reflective surface. Standing next to him and catching a glimpse of us in a mirror along the wall makes me shiver with an uncontrollable glee. It looks right in a way I can’t explain.

Conveying me around the room with a hand on my hip like I’m some dog trotting alongside him should piss me off, too. Does it? No, not at all. I like being at his side. I like the pressure of his palm, the heat of it, the tether that keeps me leashed to him while he purrs my name again and again to men who pretend not to look at me for too long because they know, just like I do, that Vince would gut any man who gawks.

I like it all.

I like it all too much.

We approach a group of men standing near a potted palm. They fall silent as we near.

“Gentlemen,” Vince says smoothly. “I’d like you to meet my executive assistant, Rowan St. Clair. Rowan, this is Mikhail Volkov, Dimitri Sokolov, and Anton Kozlov.”

I smile, extending my hand as I’ve done all evening. “Pleased to meet you all.”

Mikhail—a broad-shouldered man with salt-and-pepper hair and cold eyes—takes my hand first. “The pleasure is ours, Ms. St. Clair. Vince has been keeping you to himself, it seems.”

His voice sends a chill down my spine, though I can’t pinpoint why.

“I’ve only been in my position for a short time,” I say.

“And how are you finding it?” Anton asks. He’s younger than the others, maybe mid-thirties, with a dark beard and a scar bisecting his left eyebrow.

“Challenging,” I answer truthfully. “But educational.”

The men exchange glances, something unspoken passing between them.

“Vince has always had an eye for… talent,” Dimitri says, his gaze lingering on me a beat too long.

Vince’s hand tightens at my back. “If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen. I see the Nakamuras are free now.”

“Of course,” Mikhail says. “But before you go, have you considered our discussion about the Solovyov situation?”

Vince’s face gives nothing away. “I have. It will be handled.”

“Good.” Mikhail nods. “The sooner the better. The competition is becoming problematic.”

“These things require finesse, Mikhail. Not your usual hammer approach.”

Anton laughs, a harsh sound. “Hammers are effective, though. Especially when applied to kneecaps.”

“Subtlety has never been your strong suit,” Vince says dryly. “That’s why I’m handling this personally.”

“Just make sure it’s dealt with before the shipment arrives,” Mikhail presses. “We can’t afford another mistake.”

“When have I ever failed to eliminate competition?” Vince asks, his voice suddenly cold. “Have a little faith.”

Eliminate competition? My blood runs cold.

“Just saying,” Mikhail shrugs. “Solovyov has friends in high places. Even your father agrees they need to be⁠—”

“That’s enough,” Vince cuts him off, his voice sharp. “Not here.”

Mikhail glances at me, then back at Vince. “Of course. My apologies.”

Vince steers me away, his grip on my back firmer now. My mind is racing, trying to make sense of what I just heard.

Eliminate competition. Shipments. Kneecaps.

This isn’t business talk. At least, not legitimate business.

We stop by a deserted corner of the ballroom. Vince turns to me, his blue eyes searching my face. “You look pale. Are you feeling alright?”

“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just a bit warm.”

He studies me for a moment, then says, “Step outside with me. Get some air.”

It’s not a request. I follow him through a set of French doors onto a terrace overlooking the hotel gardens. The night air is cool against my flushed skin.

We’re alone out here. The sounds of the party are muffled behind us. The privacy should make me nervous, especially after what I just overheard, but instead, I feel relieved to be away from all those calculating eyes.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” he says after a moment. “I can practically hear the gears turning in your head.”

“Sorry,” I murmur, staring out at the twinkling city lights.

“Don’t apologize. Tell me what’s bothering you.”

I take a deep breath. This is my chance. I could ask him directly about what I overheard. About what “eliminating competition” really means. About the gun in his desk and the mysterious shipments.

But then I think of Mom. Of her medical bills. Of Diane’s warning to keep my head down and my mouth shut.

Is this a test? Is he waiting to see if I’ll cross a line?

“Nothing’s bothering me,” I say finally. “It’s just been a long day.”

He steps closer, invading my personal space. “You’re lying.”

My heart hammers against my ribs. “I’m not.”

“You heard something back there that disturbed you.” It’s not a question.

I swallow hard. “It’s not my place to question your business dealings.”

“No,” he agrees. “It’s not. But you want to.”

Our eyes lock. The tension between us could power the entire Manhattan skyline.

“Is it true?” I whisper before I can stop myself. “Are you going to… eliminate someone?”

There. I’ve said it. Crossed the line and possibly signed my own death warrant in the process.

Instead of anger, though, his expression softens. “You shouldn’t concern yourself with such things, Rowan.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.” His voice is gentle but firm. “Some questions are better left unasked.”

“And if I can’t do that? If I can’t just ignore what I’ve seen and heard?”

He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture is surprisingly tender, especially in contrast to the words that come out of his mouth next. “Then this job isn’t for you. And that would be unfortunate. For both of us.”

I freeze. My skin is cold, but Vince’s fingertips brushing across my jawline are hot as hellfire.

“I need this job,” I whisper. “My mom⁠—”

“I know.” His thumb taps my chin. “And you’re good at it. Better than I expected.”

“But?”

“But curiosity can be dangerous, Rowan. Especially in my world.”

“What is your world, exactly?” I find the courage to ask.

His eyes darken. “Do you really want to know?”

No. Yes. Maybe.

“I don’t know,” I admit.

He steps even closer, his body nearly touching mine. “That’s the wisest thing you’ve said all night.”

I should step back. If there’s distance between us, then there’s room to pretend professionalism didn’t fly the coop a long, long time ago. I just need air between our bodies. Space. Safety.

For a long moment, Vince says nothing. Just watches me, his face impossible to read.

Then he smiles—a cold, dangerous curve of his lips that makes my blood freeze.

“Not everything is as black and white as you think, little doe.” He traces a finger down my bare arm. “Business is business. Sometimes, that means removing obstacles. Sometimes, those obstacles are people.”

My stomach drops. “So you are going to kill someone.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t deny it, either.”

His hand moves to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair. Not pulling, just holding. Reminding me that he could hurt me if he wanted to.

“Let me ask you something,” he says softly. “If someone threatened your mother’s life, what would you do to stop them?”

The question cuts straight to my core. “Anything,” I whisper without hesitation.

“Exactly.” His grip tightens. “That’s what separates us from the animals, Rowan. Not the things we’re willing to do. But the reasons we do them.”

It’s twisted logic. Justification for violence.

And yet…

“We should get back inside,” I say, trying to pull away. “People will wonder where we are.”

He doesn’t release me. “Answer one more question first.”

I wait, heart pounding.

“Does it frighten you?” he asks. “Knowing what I am? What I do?”

I could lie. Should lie. But something in his eyes demands the truth.

“Yes,” I admit. “And no.”

His eyebrow raises. “Explain.”

“I’m afraid of what you’re capable of,” I say slowly. “But also… drawn to it. And that scares me even more.”

A slow smile spreads across his face—genuine this time, reaching his eyes.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “Honesty suits you better than fear.” He releases me, stepping back. “Let’s return to the party. I’ve seen everything I needed to see tonight.”

As I follow him back inside, I wonder what exactly he means. What he saw. What he was looking for.

And I wonder why, despite everything I just learned, I’m still following him at all.