Filthy Promises: Chapter 18

The drive to my father’s house is familiar. Every bend, every turn, every stoplight burned into my memory from thousands of trips over the years.

I don’t need to focus on the road. Which is good, because my mind is elsewhere.

It’s on last night’s gala. On green silk. On wide eyes that somehow managed to look both terrified and tempted at the same damn time.

Rowan St. Clair. My little assistant with the steel spine and trembling hands.

My father noticed her. As in noticed her. Not just the passing of his gaze over her and the deeming of her as insignificant. No, he stopped and he looked.

And he found her wanting.

I saw it in his eyes—the calculation, the dismissal, the warning. He thinks she’s beneath me. A distraction. A liability.

He’s wrong.

I pull through the gates of the Akopov estate, the security team nodding as I pass. The sprawling mansion looms ahead, all stone and glass and Moscow gravitas transplanted to American soil.

Home. Though it’s never really felt that way.

It’s hard to feel fondly about a place that’s swallowed your blood and screamed for more.

I park in the circular driveway and cut the engine. For a moment, I sit in silence, preparing myself for whatever bullshit my father has summoned me here to discuss. His text was cryptic: Family dinner. 7PM sharp. Important matters to discuss.

In Andrei Akopov’s world, “important matters” usually means he’s about to make my life way more fucking complicated.

The front door opens before I reach it.

“Vincent.” Marta, the housekeeper, greets me with a warm smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’re late.”

“By two minutes.” I kiss her cheek, inhaling the familiar scent of her perfume—Yves Saint Laurent Opium, the same bottle I buy her every Christmas. “Traffic.”

She links her arm through mine. “He’s in a mood,” she warns quietly as we walk toward the dining room. “Tread carefully.”

“When is he not in a mood?”

“Fair point.” She squeezes my arm. “But tonight feels different. Don’t ask me why.”

Before I can ask what she means, we enter the dining room. My father sits at the head of the table, a glass of vodka in his hand, a stack of folders beside his plate.

“Seven minutes late,” he announces without looking up.

“Two minutes,” I correct, taking my usual seat to his right. “The traffic⁠—”

“I don’t care.” He cuts me off with a wave of his hand. “We have business to discuss.”

Marta slips into her chair silently, eyes downcast. After thirty-five years in the Akopovs’ employ, she knows when to fade into the background.

I pour myself a vodka from the crystal decanter. “What kind of business?”

“Your future.” He pushes the stack of folders toward me. “Open them.”

I take the first folder, flip it open, and find myself staring at a photograph of a young woman. Beautiful, in that cold, calculated way favored by the daughters of powerful men. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Dark, expensive clothes.

“Irina Petrov,” my father says. “Twenty-eight. MBA from Moscow State. Grigor’s only daughter.”

I flip to the next page. Financial information. Family connections. Medical history.

It’s a fucking dossier.

“What is this?” I ask, though I already know.

“Candidates.” His voice is matter-of-fact. “For marriage.”

I close the folder. “I don’t need your help finding a wife.”

“Evidence suggests otherwise.” He takes a long sip of vodka. “The timeline has shortened. You have two months, Vincent. I’ve arranged meetings with each of these women over the next three weeks.”

“Two months?” I repeat. “My birthday is in six.”

“The paperwork takes time.” He taps the folders. “And I need to be assured of your choice before the transfer of power. The board meeting is in twelve weeks. This needs to be settled before then.”

I open the second folder. Another beautiful woman. Another set of statistics and qualifications, laid out like a resume.

“Katerina Volkov,” my father supplies. “Twenty-five. Mikhail’s niece. Harvard Law.”

“And the third?” I ask, not bothering to open the last folder.

“Anastasia Kuznetsov. Twenty-four. Dual PhDs in International Relations and Economics.”

I push the folders away. “I’ll find my own wife.”

“You’ve had years to do that.” My father’s voice hardens. “Time’s up.”

A servant enters with the first course—borscht, steaming in fine china bowls. We fall silent as she serves us, then disappears back into the kitchen.

“I won’t be forced into marriage with a stranger,” I say once we’re alone again.

“They’re hardly strangers. You’ve known these families your entire life.”

“That doesn’t make them suitable. It doesn’t mean I want to fucking marry them.”

My father’s eyes narrow. “They’re more suitable than some mousy, nobody secretary, I assure you.”

And there it is. The real reason for this dinner.

“Rowan,” I say, watching his reaction. “That’s what this is about.”

“The girl from the gala?” He spits the words like they taste bitter, as if erasing her name is the only fate she deserves. Like having a proper name is a level of importance she has not and will never earn. “I made inquiries. No family connections. No money. No education worth mentioning. Nothing to offer the Bratva.”

“She has… other qualities.”

“Such as?” He sneers. “A pretty face? A willing body? You can get those anywhere without putting a ring on her fucking finger, moy syn.”

“I won’t justify my choices to you,” I say. “The terms of the inheritance require marriage. They don’t specify to whom.”

“Don’t play games with me, boy!” He slams his fist on the table, making the silverware jump. “I built this empire from nothing. I won’t see it handed to an impulsive brat who makes decisions with his dick instead of his head.”

I remain calm, taking a spoonful of borscht. “Is the food getting cold?”

“This isn’t a joke, Vincent.” His voice descends into a dangerous growl. “For fuck’s sake, how many times must I repeat myself? The Bratva isn’t just business. It’s family. Tradition. Legacy. The woman you marry becomes part of that legacy.”

“Times change.”

“Some things never change.” He leans forward, elbows planted hard on the table, rheumy eyes unblinking as he skewers me with a gaze that’s seen far, far too much in his six decades on this planet. “You need connections. What does this girl bring to the table? Medical bills? A job she’s unqualified for? A virgin’s naivety?”

My grip tightens on my spoon. “You’ve been investigating her.”

“Of course I have.” He scoffs. “I investigate everyone who gets close to my son. Especially when that son is about to inherit everything I’ve built.”

I set down my spoon with deliberate care. “You’re right. It is business. And in business, you evaluate all potential investments before making a decision.”

“She’s not an investment. She’s a liability.”

“That’s your opinion.”

“It’s a fact.” He pulls another folder from beside his chair and tosses it onto the table. It slides toward me, stopping just short of my bowl. “See for yourself.”

I open it to find more information on Rowan. It’s nothing I haven’t dug up myself already. Her mother’s medical records. Financial statements showing years of debt. Academic transcripts, employment history, blah blah fucking blah.

But then…

Surveillance photos.

Dozens of them. Rowan leaving her apartment. Visiting her mother in the hospital. Sitting at her desk in my office.

Even one of us talking on the terrace at last night’s gala, her face tilted up to mine, eyes bright and shining.

Something hot and dangerous unfurls in my chest.

“You had her followed,” I say, my voice deadly quiet.

“I protect what’s mine.”

“She’s not a threat.”

“No?” He raises an eyebrow. “She knows about the gun in your desk. About the shipments. About Mikhail and the others. How long before she runs to the police, eh?”

I close the folder, pushing it back toward him. “She won’t.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I can. And I do.”

My father studies me for a long moment. “You care for her,” he finally says in utter disgust, like it’s a diagnosis of terminal illness.

I don’t answer.

I don’t need to.

“This is worse than I thought.” He shakes his head. “Caring makes you vulnerable, Vincent. I taught you better than that.”

“You taught me many things,” I agree. “Not all of them worth remembering.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to cut.

“You have two months,” he finally says. “You will meet with each of these women. You will choose one of them. You will announce your engagement at the board meeting.” He leans forward. “Or you get nothing. Not the company. Not the Bratva. Not a single share or dollar or ounce of respect from me or anyone else in our world.”

“And if I choose someone else?”

“Then you’re on your own.” His eyes are as cold as the winters he was born into. “Not a penny of mine will pass into your hands. It will be just you and whatever gutter rat you’ve decided is worth throwing away your birthright for.”

I consider my options carefully. I could tell him to go fuck himself. Walk away from all of it. Start fresh.

But the Bratva doesn’t work that way. Walking away isn’t just leaving a job or a family—it’s leaving a way of life. One that comes with enemies who would immediately see me as vulnerable. Fair game.

And by extension, anyone close to me would be fair game, too.

“I’ll meet with them,” I say finally. “All three.”

Relief flashes across my father’s face, quickly masked. “Good. The first meeting is tomorrow night. Dinner with Irina Petrov at Per Se. Eight o’clock.”

“Fine.” I take a drink of vodka, feeling it burn all the way down. “But I make no promises about the outcome.”

“Two months, Vincent.” He taps the stack of folders. “Choose wisely.”

The rest of dinner passes in strained conversation about business matters. By the time dessert arrives—a traditional Russian honey cake that tastes like radioactive ash in my mouth—I’ve made my decision.

I’ll play my father’s game. Meet these women. Pretend to consider them.

But I’ll do it on my terms.

I drop my fork clattering onto my plate and stand. “Where are you going?” my father asks in surprise.

“To throw myself a bachelor party,” I say sarcastically.

I turn and leave, though I bring the glass of vodka with me. I drain it dry, then leave it on the stoop as I brush through the front door and out into the night again. The purr of my car rocketing down the drive settles into my bones. Steadies me. Orients me.

“I’m afraid of what you’re capable of. But also… drawn to it. And that scares me even more.” I smile into the darkness as Manhattan’s skyline rises before me.

My father thinks he’s going to drag me down into the hell of his choosing. And fuck it, maybe he will.

But I won’t be going alone.