Filthy Promises: Chapter 35

Something’s wrong with Rowan.

I’m watching her through the slit in my office blinds because that’s all I can fucking bear to do these days.

Legitimate work? Not a fucking chance.

Bratva duties? No thank you.

Stare at her and imagine how I can bend and twist and break her tonight?

That sounds a lot fucking better.

But as she presses the phone to her ear, all that delicious pent-up energy that mirrors mine goes sluicing out of her.

This is bad. Something has her terrified.

When the call ends, I watch through my office window as she fumbles with her phone, dropping it twice before managing to set it down. Her hands are shaking visibly, even from this distance.

Diane catches my eye across the office, her eyebrow raised in silent question. I nod once, and she’s already moving to intercept Rowan as she lurches from her desk.

I move to the doorway of my office, listening.

“I need to— I have to go. Family emergency.” Rowan’s voice sounds hollow, disconnected.

“Rowan.” I say her name firmly, stepping into the main office.

She turns, her face pale as paper. “I need to go,” she repeats. “My mother⁠—”

“What happened?” I cross the space between us in four long strides.

“I just—I need to go.”

Only one thing could put that pallor on her face: her mother’s cancer. Of course. The medical bills I’ve seen in her file, the hospital visits, the constant drain on her resources. The thing that makes her desperate enough to keep working for me despite everything she’s seen.

So I do what I never do for anyone on this godforsaken planet: I give her help.

Take my car.

I’ll walk you down.

It’s only as I send her off that I realize just how foreign this was. I’m Vincent fucking Akopov. I don’t care. I don’t fret.

This girl is worming into me in unacceptable ways.

When the car disappears around the corner, I call Arkady. “I need you to follow my car,” I tell him without preamble. “It’s headed to Mount Sinai Hospital. Don’t let anyone see you.”

“What’s going on?” He sounds concerned. “Is this Solovyov again?”

“No. Personal matter.”

“Ah.” I can hear his shit-eating grin through the phone. “The assistant?”

“Just do it,” I snap, hanging up before he can ask more questions.

I return to my office long enough to grab my jacket and throw some files into my briefcase. Appearances matter. I can’t have the entire staff thinking I’m running after an employee like some lovesick teenager.

“Clear my schedule for the rest of the day,” I order Diane on my way out. “And call Dr. Weiss. Tell him I need to speak with him urgently about a cancer patient at Mount Sinai.”

Her eyebrows rise, but she knows better than to comment. “Of course, Mr. Akopov.”

Fifteen minutes later, I’m pulling up to the hospital in my second car, the one with the heavily tinted windows. The one I use when I don’t want to be noticed.

Arkady is waiting for me in the lobby, lounging in a chair with a magazine open on his lap. He rises when I enter. “Fourth floor, cancer ward,” he reports. “Room 412. She’s been in there about ten minutes.”

I nod. “Wait here. Let me know if anyone suspicious comes through.”

“You really think someone would target her here?” He sounds skeptical.

“I think I don’t take chances with things that belong to me.”

I make my way to the elevators, ignoring the part of me that’s questioning why I’m really here.

The cancer ward has that particular hush that comes with proximity to death. Hushed voices. Soft footsteps. The steady electronic beeping of machines keeping time like metronomes marking the remaining seconds of too many lives.

I don’t approach Room 412 directly. Instead, I find the nurses’ station and flash a smile at the middle-aged woman behind the desk.

“I need to speak with Dr. Patel regarding one of his patients,” I tell her. “Margaret St. Clair.”

The nurse frowns. “Are you family?”

“Business associate,” I reply smoothly, producing a business card. “It’s regarding the financial arrangements for her treatment.”

The professional card with the Akopov Industries logo works its magic. Healthcare runs on money in this country, and everyone knows it.

“I’ll page him,” she says.

I take a seat in the small waiting area, positioned with a clear view of Room 412. Through the partially open door, I can see Rowan sitting on the edge of a bed, her head bowed as she speaks to someone I can’t quite see. Her mother, I presume.

Dr. Patel arrives five minutes later. He’s a harried-looking man with thinning, salt-and-pepper hair and bags under his eyes.

“Mr. Akopov?” He extends his hand. “I’m not sure I understand⁠—”

“Let’s speak privately,” I suggest, gesturing to an empty consultation room I noticed earlier.

Once inside with the door closed, I get straight to the point. “I understand Margaret St. Clair needs an experimental treatment that her insurance won’t cover.”

He blinks, taken aback. “I… er, yes, that’s correct. But patient confidentiality prevents me from⁠—”

“I’ll be covering the costs,” I interrupt. “All of them. Whatever she needs.”

His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. “Mr. Akopov, we’re talking about a very expensive protocol. The initial course alone is⁠—”

I pull out my phone and transfer an amount that makes his eyes widen. “Consider that a down payment. There will be more as needed.”

Dr. Patel stares at the confirmation message on his phone. “I… I don’t understand. What is your relationship to the patient?”

“Her daughter works for me,” I say, as if that explains everything.

Maybe it does. Maybe it doesn’t. I’m not entirely sure myself.

“This is very generous, but Ms. St. Clair—the younger Ms. St. Clair—was just saying they couldn’t possibly afford⁠—”

“She doesn’t need to know where the money came from,” I cut in. “In fact, I insist on anonymity.”

His brow furrows. “That’s unusual⁠—”

I step closer, using my height to its full advantage. “Anonymous donors fund medical treatments all the time. This will be no different.”

He studies me for a moment, then nods slowly. “I suppose the hospital can inform them that a donor has stepped forward. It does happen… occasionally.”

“Good.” I hand him my private card. “Call this number if anything else is needed. Anything at all.”

“Mr. Akopov—” he hesitates. “May I ask why? If you don’t want recognition⁠—”

“No, you may not,” I reply. “Just make sure she gets everything she needs. The best care possible.”

“Of course.” He tucks the card away. “I’ll speak with the family today.”

“Not today,” I correct him. “Give it a day or two. Let her daughter come to terms with the situation first.”

He looks puzzled but agrees. “As you wish.”

I leave him with final instructions and make my way back toward the elevators, careful to avoid passing Room 412.

I don’t want Rowan to see me here.

I don’t want her to know I’m doing this.

If she knew, she might feel obligated. Might think she owes me something. And while the old me would have enjoyed that power, would have used it to my advantage—the thought leaves me cold now.

I want her to come to me because she chooses to, not because she’s paying a debt.

The realization is unsettling.

I’m halfway to the elevator when I hear her voice. She’s leaving her mother’s room, heading in my direction.

Fuck.

I duck into a supply closet, feeling ridiculous even as I do it. Vincent Akopov, future pakhan of the Russian Bratva, hiding in a hospital closet like a goddamn teenager avoiding his girlfriend’s parents.

I wait until I hear her footsteps pass, then count to thirty before reemerging.

When I do, the coast is clear. I make my way to the elevator and back down to where Arkady waits.

“Well?” he asks when I approach. “Mission accomplished?”

“Yes.” I don’t elaborate.

“You know you’re acting weird as fuck, right?” he observes, falling into step beside me as we leave the hospital. “Following assistants to hospitals, throwing money at sick mothers… What’s next? Adopting puppies? Hand-feeding the homeless?”

“Shut up,” I growl.

“Just saying.” He raises his hands in surrender. “I’ve never seen you like this over a woman before. It’s concerning.”

“I’m not ‘like this’ over her,” I snap. “I’m protecting an investment. She can’t work effectively if she’s distracted by her mother’s illness.”

We both know it’s a lie, but Arkady is smart enough not to call me on it. At least not directly.

“Right. An investment.” He grins. “One you’re fucking on every available surface.”

I shoot him a look that would make most men piss themselves. He just laughs.

“Fine, keep your secrets.” He claps me on the shoulder. “But whatever this is? It’s changing you.”

I shake his hand off. “Nothing’s changing.”

But as I slide into my car, I know that isn’t true. Something is changing. I’m changing.

I think about Rowan’s face when she got that call. The naked fear in her eyes. The weight she’s been carrying alone.

And I think about how, for the first time in my life, I’ve gone out of my way to lift someone else’s burden without expecting anything in return.

What the fuck is happening to me?

I’m Vincent fucking Akopov. I don’t do charity. I don’t do selfless. I definitely don’t hide in closets to avoid being seen doing something kind.

I pull out my phone, staring at the screen for a long time without really seeing it.

Eventually, I type out a text: How is she?

The response comes quickly. Not good. They want to try a new treatment, but we can’t afford it.

I stare at those words for a long moment. In a day or two, she’ll learn that they can afford it after all. That some mysterious benefactor has stepped forward to save the day.

She’ll be relieved. Grateful to whatever anonymous saint made it possible.

She’ll never know it was me.

And that’s… fine.

No, better than fine. It’s what I want.

I type back: I’m sorry to hear that.

Then I add: Don’t come back to the office today. Take tomorrow too if needed.

Thank you, she replies. For understanding. And for the car.

Such small things to be thankful for. The bare minimum of human decency.

I wonder what she’d think if she knew what I’ve just done. Would she be grateful? Angry that I went behind her back? Would she see it as generosity or just another way I’m trying to control her life?

It doesn’t matter. She won’t find out. No one will ever know except for Dr. Patel, and he knows better than to talk.

I’ve just spent more money than most people see in a lifetime to help a woman I’ve never met, to ease the suffering of my… whatever Rowan is to me. Assistant? Lover? Distraction?

Complication—that’s what I called her once. A beautiful fucking complication.

And now, I’m complicating things even further by doing this. By caring.

It’s dangerous. Weak. Exactly the kind of shit my father warned me against. Caring makes you vulnerable, Vincent. I taught you better than that.

Yet here I am, doing it anyway.

I put my phone away and instruct my driver to take me home. I need a drink. A strong one.

And then I need to figure out why the thought of Rowan’s happiness has become more important to me than the lessons beaten into me since childhood.