Filthy Promises: Chapter 47

I’m dreaming of the moment that started it all.

I’m standing in the office door again, but instead of files in my arms, it’s a squalling baby swaddled in blankets the same antiseptic green color as Mom’s hospital room.

I look up. There’s no Vanessa this time, but Vince is there. He’s naked, huge, terrifying. Tattooed and inked, scarred and savage, eyes like black pits and hands like weapons attached to his body.

He looks.

Looks.

Looks.

Winks.

In my dream, I don’t run. Instead, I step inside.

The door closes behind me. Vince smiles. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he says.

Then he rips the baby out of my arms.

I wake with a gasp, heart hammering against my ribs, the dream still clinging to me like a second skin I never asked for and never wanted.

It takes me a moment to realize what woke me—a knock at my door, firm and insistent. My clock reads 4:23 A.M. I fell asleep on the couch sometime after crying myself into exhaustion.

Great. Perfect. Exactly what I need right now.

The knocker has to be Vince. Only he would pound at my door at this hour, with complete disregard for normal manners or the barest minimum of human decency.

The knock comes again, more forceful this time.

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM. Like a frantic heart just before it gives out for good.

“Go away, Vince!” I call out, wrapping my throw blanket around my shoulders like armor.

“It’s not Vincent, Ms. St. Clair.”

Frowning, I step over to the door, look through the peephole, and…

Oh.

Oh, God.

Andrei Akopov is on my doorstep.

This is fine. Everything is fine. Just the most terrifying man in New York standing outside my crappy apartment while I’m sporting the puffy, red-eyed look of someone who’s been sobbing for hours, because I have been, courtesy of his blackhearted son.

He’s silver-haired and imposing, impeccably dressed in an immaculate suit despite the hour. He looks impatient. He keeps glancing at his watch like every second spent waiting is a personal insult he will not stand.

When I open the door, I’m instantly dwarfed by his presence. He’s not as tall as Vince, but somehow he seems to take up even more space. More oxygen. More everything.

“Ms. St. Clair,” he says again. “May I come in?”

His foot is already crossing my threshold before I can respond.

“I guess,” I mumble, stepping aside. “Make yourself at home.”

Like father, like son.

His appraising gaze sweeps over my apartment, taking in the sagging couch, the water stain on the ceiling, the IKEA furniture that was already secondhand when I bought it. I see it all through his eyes, and I want to die of embarrassment.

But mostly, I’m just angry. Angry at Vince. Angry at this entire situation.

And since he’s decided to thrust himself into the whole mess, I’m also angry now at the silver-haired bear of a man now standing in my living room like he owns it.

“I won’t waste your time with pleasantries,” Andrei begins, not bothering to sit. “I understand you’re carrying my grandchild.”

Direct. Just like his son. You gotta give the Akopov men that much, at least.

I don’t even bother being shocked or hurt. I just grimace. “Word travels fast,” I mutter, tightening the blanket around my shoulders.

“In my world, it does.” He studies me with those unnerving eyes—the same blue as Vince’s, but colder. “I also understand you’ve rejected my son’s proposal of marriage.”

My face heats. Of course Vince went running to Daddy with the news. Why am I even surprised?

“That’s between me and your son,” I say, lifting my chin.

“Under normal circumstances, perhaps.” Andrei reaches into his jacket and pulls out an envelope. “But these are not normal circumstances.”

He holds out the envelope.

I don’t take it. “What’s that?”

“An offer,” he says simply. “One that will benefit us both.”

Against my better judgment, curiosity gets the better of me. I take the envelope, opening it to find…

A check. With more zeros than I’ve ever seen in my life.

“What is this?” I ask, though I already know. My stomach churns with disgust.

“Compensation,” Andrei says, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Marry my son. Bear the Akopov heir. Raise the child properly, in our traditions.” He gestures to the check. “That amount is just the beginning. There will be more, of course, as obligations are fulfilled.”

I stare at him, unable to believe what I’m hearing.

But I shouldn’t be surprised. Like father, like son. The apple didn’t fall far from the Akopov family tree.

And they’re all fucking rotten to the core.

“Obligations,” I repeat, my voice hollow. “What does that make me?”

His expression doesn’t change. “You’re the mother of my grandchild. That gives you a certain value.”

I laugh right in his smug face. “How generous of you to see me as a human being and not just a walking uterus. Truly, I am flattered.”

“Do not mistake my directness for a lack of respect, Ms. St. Clair,” Andrei says, his tone hardening. “I am offering you security. Wealth. Many women would kill for such things.”

“And all I have to do is sign away my life to your son and let you dictate how I raise my child.” I hold up the check. “Thanks but no thanks.”

I tear it in half, then in quarters, then toss the pieces at his feet.

His eyes track the fluttering paper with mild, dispassionate interest. As if it’s merely a curiosity. “I see.”

“Do you? Because let me be crystal clear.” I step closer, anger overtaking fear as I jab a finger into the chest of a man who could easily have me killed. “I am not for sale. My baby is not for sale. And if Vince sent you here to⁠—”

“Vincent knows nothing of this visit,” Andrei interrupts. “In fact, he would be rather displeased if he knew I was here.”

That stops me short. “Then why are you?”

“Because despite my son’s many strengths, he lacks finesse in these matters.” Andrei moves to my window, sneering out at the dismal view.

“You don’t say,” I mutter.

“You’ve made quite an impression on him, Ms. St. Clair.” Andrei’s voice takes on a thoughtful quality. “I’ve never seen him so distracted.”

I don’t know what to say to that. Part of me—the pathetic, lovesick, silly little schoolgirl part—wants to ask what he means. How has Vince been distracted? Has he talked about me? Shown any sign that his feelings go beyond the transactional?

Does he love me, or does he love me not?

But I squash that impulse. I won’t give Andrei the satisfaction.

“If you think this little good cop/bad cop routine is going to work, you’re mistaken,” I say instead. “I’m not marrying Vince. Not for your money, not for his ‘protection,’ not for any reason except love—which, clearly, isn’t on the table.”

Andrei turns from the window, his expression hardening. “Love is a luxury, Ms. St. Clair. People in our position cannot afford it.”

“Well, lucky for me, I’m not in your position. I never will be.”

“But you carry an Akopov,” he counters. “That puts you squarely in our world, whether you like it or not.”

He steps closer, towering over me in a way that’s clearly meant to intimidate.

Unfortunately, it’s effective.

“Listen carefully, girl. That baby you’re carrying is not just any child. It’s the heir to an empire. My grandson.”

“Or granddaughter,” I interrupt. “It could be a girl, you know.”

His mouth twitches. “Girl or boy, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that the child is raised properly.”

The implication makes my blood run cold. “Are you threatening me?”

“Merely stating facts. A child born into the Akopov family has responsibilities. Expectations.”

“And if I don’t want those expectations for my child?”

“Then perhaps you should have been more careful about who you spread your legs for.”

My face screws up tight. I’ve done this once already tonight. I don’t have to stand here and listen to yet another Akopov man try to bully me into submission.

So I do the same thing I did before.

“Get out,” I whisper. “Get the fuck out before I start to scream.”

I don’t have time for fear as Andrei’s face darkens like a storm cloud about to unleash hell. His enormous hand shoots out, grabbing my throat with surprising speed for a man his age.

“I tried being nice,” he hisses, eyes glacial. “Perhaps I ought to adjust my approach. You’re nothing. A convenience. A warm body my son decided to fuck. So if you think you can talk to me like that, you are mistaken.”

I claw at his fingers, but they’re like steel bands crushing my windpipe. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision.

“The Akopov name will be on that birth certificate,” he growls. “One way or another.”

The threat isn’t subtle. I’m disposable. The baby isn’t.

“I— I— I⁠—”

Suddenly, the door crashes open.

“Get your fucking hands off her.”