Filthy Promises: Chapter 24

Sharp pain rockets through my skull as consciousness creeps back in.

My cheek presses against something cold and hard—glass from the shattered window, maybe. My vision is blurry, the world tilted at a wrong angle.

What happened?

One second, Vince’s fingers were… were…

… and then…

The car. We crashed.

“Rowan.” Vince’s voice cuts through the fog. “Rowan, look at me.”

I blink slowly, trying to make sense of the chaos. The car is on its side. Vince is above me—or beside me? Geometry doesn’t make sense anymore.

“V… Vi…”

“Are you hurt?” he demands. His hands rove over my face, my neck, my waist, checking for injuries.

“I don’t—I don’t think so,” I mumble. My head throbs, but nothing feels broken. “Wh…what happened?”

“We were hit. Deliberately.” His voice is hard, focused. Different than I’ve ever heard it. “Can you move?”

Before I can answer, the night erupts with the sound of shouting. Male voices, harsh commands in a language I don’t recognize.

Vince’s expression transforms instantly. The controlled businessman vanishes, replaced by something savage.

“Stay down,” he orders, reaching inside his jacket.

That’s when I see it—the gun from his desk drawer, now gripped expertly in his hand.

“Vince, what⁠—”

“Not now.” His eyes are scanning our surroundings with lethal focus. “When I move, you follow me. Stay low. Stay close. Understand?”

I nod, terror crystallizing in my chest.

The rear door of the car is wrenched open suddenly. A masked figure looms in the opening, also holding a gun.

What happens next unfolds so quickly I can barely process it.

Vince moves like water—fluid, unstoppable. His foot connects with the attacker’s wrist, sending the gun flying. In the same motion, he launches himself through the doorway.

I hear grunts. Screams. The sickening sound of fist meeting flesh.

“Stay in the car!” Vince shouts back to me.

But the car is sideways, the door above me now hanging open. I can see everything, framed like art made of blood and bullets and badly broken bone.

I see Vince as he faces three masked men, all in black, all armed.

I see how he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t show an ounce of fear.

He fights like he was born for violence. Every movement is efficient, brutal, purposeful. He disarms one attacker, using the man’s momentum to send him crashing into another.

The third pulls a knife.

“Vince!” I scream, but he’s already seen it.

He sidesteps the thrust, grabs the attacker’s wrist, and the sound of breaking bone cracks through the night. The knife clatters to the pavement as the man howls in pain.

One of the others recovers, lunging for a gun on the ground.

Vince is faster.

The gunshot is deafening. Once, twice, three times.

The attacker drops, blood blooming across his chest. His body crumples to the street.

Lights out. Forever.

I clap my hand over my mouth to stifle a scream.

Vince just killed someone. Right in front of me.

The remaining attackers scramble back, shouting to each other. One of them drags the wounded one away while the other provides cover, firing wildly in Vince’s direction.

Vince ducks behind the overturned car, bullets pinging off metal inches from where he crouches.

“Rowan!” he calls. “Are you okay?”

I can’t speak or move. I can only stare at the body lying in a spreading pool of blood on the asphalt.

He shot him. Three times. Without hesitation.

The world narrows to that single point. The dead man. The blood. The gun still in Vince’s hand.

“Rowan!” His voice is sharper now. “Look at me. Not at him. At me.”

I drag my eyes away from the body to find Vince’s face inches from mine. His features are set in stone, but his eyes burn with an intensity I’ve never seen before.

“I need you to focus,” he says. “Can you do that for me?”

I nod mechanically.

“Good girl.” He reaches for my face, his bloodied knuckles gentle against my cheek. “I’m going to get you out of here, but I need you to follow my instructions exactly. No questions. No hesitation. Understood?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“They’re regrouping. We have maybe thirty seconds. I’m going to pull you out, and we’re going to run to that alley.” He nods toward a narrow passage between buildings about twenty yards away. “Don’t look back. Don’t slow down. If I tell you to drop, you drop. If I tell you to run, you run. Clear?”

“Clear.”

He studies my face for a moment, as if gauging whether I’m really processing his words.

Whatever he sees must satisfy him, because he nods once, decisively.

“On three. One… two… three!”

He grabs my arm and yanks me from the wreckage of the car. The sudden movement makes my head spin, but adrenaline takes over.

We sprint toward the alley, my heels abandoned in the car, bare feet slapping against cold pavement.

A shout echoes behind us. More gunfire.

Vince wraps his arm around my waist, half-carrying me as we run. His body shields mine. A wall of man between me and the danger.

We reach the alley just as bullets strike the brick wall beside us, sending fragments flying. One grazes my cheek, hot and sharp. I gasp at the sudden pain.

Vince pulls me deeper into the darkness, one arm still around me, the other holding his gun at the ready.

“You’re bleeding,” he notes, eyes locked on the cut on my face.

“So are you,” I reply, noticing for the first time the gash across his forehead, the torn sleeve of his jacket.

He ignores it as he checks behind us. “We need to keep moving. My men will be here soon, but we can’t stay in one place.”

“Your men?”

“Bratva security. I triggered the alarm when I realized we were being hit.”

The confirmation of what I’ve suspected for months should shock me. It doesn’t. Not after watching him kill a man without blinking.

We move deeper into the maze of alleyways, Vince navigating with confident familiarity. Each sound makes me flinch—a cat knocking over a trash can, distant sirens, the echo of our own footsteps.

“Who were they?” I finally ask.

“Solovyov’s men,” he answers grimly. “He’s been warned. Repeatedly.”

I remember the name from the gala. From the overheard conversation about eliminating competition.

“This is my fault,” Vince continues, surprising me. “I’ve been distracted. Sloppy. Let my guard down.”

He stops suddenly, pushing me against a wall, his body covering mine as headlights sweep past the mouth of the alley.

For a moment, I think the attackers have found us.

But Vince relaxes. “It’s Arkady,” he says, recognizing the vehicle. “We’re safe.”

Safe. The word sounds hollow after what I’ve just witnessed. Safe is a fucking joke. No part of guns in desks and dead men on sidewalks is safe.

Will I ever feel safe again?

Vince pulls back, enough to look at my face. His eyes search mine, no doubt finding the shock, the horror, the fear that must be written there.

“Rowan,” he says, voice softer now. “What you saw back there⁠—”

“You killed him,” I interrupt, the words tumbling out. “You shot him. Three times.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve done that before.”

It’s not a question, but he answers anyway. “Yes, I have.”

I should be recoiling. Should be horrified. Should be running as fast and as far from Vincent Akopov as I possibly can.

Instead, I find myself reaching up to touch the cut on his forehead, my fingers coming away red.

“You were protecting me,” I whisper.

“I will always protect what’s mine.”

The possessive claim should anger me. It doesn’t. Not now. Not after seeing how far he’ll go to keep me safe.

“Am I? Yours?”

His hand cradles my face, thumb brushing over my cheekbone, careful to avoid the cut. “Do you want to be?”

Before I can answer, a sleek, black SUV pulls up at the end of the alley. Arkady jumps out, gun drawn, his boyish features hardened into something unrecognizable.

“Vince!” he calls. “Are you hit?”

“We’re fine,” Vince answers, not taking his eyes off me. “Get us out of here. Now.”

Arkady approaches quickly, taking in my bloodied face, torn dress, bare feet. “Christ, what a mess.” He eyes me warily. “She okay?”

“I’m standing right here,” I snap, sudden anger cutting through the shock. “And yes, I’m ‘okay’ for someone who just watched her boss kill a man after their car was attacked by mobsters. Totally fucking peachy.”

Arkady’s eyebrows shoot up, and to my surprise, he laughs. “She’s got moxie, I’ll give her that.”

Vince’s lips twitch, almost a smile. “Let’s go before Solovyov sends reinforcements.”

He keeps his arm around me as we walk to the SUV, not letting go even as we climb into the backseat. As if he’s afraid I might disappear if he releases me for even a second.

“The driver?” Vince asks as Arkady pulls away from the curb.

“Dead,” Arkady answers grimly. “Pavel, too.”

Vince’s jaw tightens. “Make sure their families are taken care of.”

“Already arranged.”

I lean my head against the cool window, trying to process everything that’s happened. My body aches, my soles are filthy and bleeding, and my head throbs where it struck the car window.

But all I can think about is the look in Vince’s eyes when he thought I was hurt.

He looked like he’d rip the world apart to find the men who did that to me.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Somewhere safe,” Vince answers, his hand finding mine in the darkness. “I’m not taking any chances with you tonight.”

“I should call someone… Let them know I’m okay…”

“Your phone was in your purse, which is still in the wrecked car,” Arkady says from the front seat. “We’ll get you a new one tomorrow. Secure line.”

I nod, too exhausted to argue. Too numb to feel much of anything except the warmth of Vince’s hand around mine.

“I’m sorry,” Vince says quietly, for my ears only. “You were never supposed to see that side of me.”

I turn to look at him, this man who touches me like I’m made of glass, who kills without remorse, who’s haunted my dreams for five years.

“I always knew it was there,” I admit. “I just didn’t know what it would look like.”

He studies me, something like wonder crossing his face. “Most people run when they see it.”

“I’m not most people.”

“No,” he agrees, squeezing my hand. “You’re certainly not.”

The city lights blur past as we drive deeper into the night, away from death, away from danger.

For now.

But as I watch Vince’s profile—hard, determined, splattered with another man’s blood—I know with bone-deep certainty that this is just the beginning.

I’ve crossed a threshold tonight. Stepped fully into Vince’s world.

A world where men die in the street. Where danger lurks around every corner. Where the man beside me is both protector and predator.

What does it say about me that I don’t want to go back?