Filthy Promises: Chapter 61

“I still don’t understand why we need a PowerPoint for this,” I say, adjusting the laptop screen. “Aren’t Bratva meetings usually conducted with more… I don’t know, threatening whispers and meaningful glances at weapons?”

Vince looks up from the stack of folders he’s organizing, amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. “Is that what you think we do all day? Sit around fondling guns and speaking in sinister tones?”

“I mean, based on the limited sample size I’ve observed…”

“PowerPoint adds legitimacy,” he explains. “And legitimacy is the whole point of today’s meeting.”

He’s right, of course. That’s why I’m here, sitting in the study that once horrified me, preparing to meet with Vince’s inner circle.

Three weeks have passed since I witnessed Igor’s almost-execution, and surprisingly, a lot has changed.

For one thing, my doctor has finally eased the bed rest restrictions, allowing me “limited movement with caution.” She said the word “caution” several more times, but I got the point.

The placental abruption has stabilized, and at nearly seven months along, our baby is growing right on schedule.

For another, I’ve agreed to help Vince with his legitimization plans—not because I’ve suddenly embraced the Bratva lifestyle, but because I believe him when he says he wants out.

For himself. For our child. For us.

“Nervous?” Vince asks, coming to stand behind me. His hands settle on my shoulders, thumbs gently kneading the tension there.

“A little,” I say. “It’s not every day a girl gives business advice to a room full of Russian mobsters.”

“They respect you,” he says, his voice warm and reassuring. “After what happened at our wedding, they know you’re strong.”

I place my hand over his. “They know I can bleed dramatically in formal wear. Not exactly a résumé builder.”

“They know you’re my wife,” he reiterates. “The mother of my child. My partner. What more do they need to know?”

That word—partner—sends a ripple of warmth through me. It’s new, this positioning of us as equals. So much of our relationship has been defined by power imbalances: boss and employee, experienced and virgin, knower of secrets and kept in the dark.

But these past weeks, something has shifted. Vince has actually been listening to me. Asking for my input. Valuing my perspective.

It’s shit-your-pants scary…

… but it’s nice.

The door opens, and Arkady pokes his head in. “They’re here.”

Vince straightens, transforming as he goes. “Send them in.”

I take a deep breath and stand, smoothing my maternity dress. At seven months pregnant, I’m definitely showing now, my belly a pronounced curve beneath the emerald silk.

It’s a deliberate choice—the color reminds Vince of how we began, and the silhouette makes my pregnancy impossible to ignore.

These men need to see me as I am: carrying the Akopov heir, but still very much my own person.

They file in one by one—six men in total, each nodding respectfully to Vince before their eyes inevitably find me.

I recognize some from the wedding: Mikhail, the bear-like man with salt-and-pepper hair. Yuri, the youngest with cold eyes that miss nothing. Dimitri, barrel-chested with scarred knuckles.

The others are new to me: a thin man with wire-rimmed glasses, a tall, imposing figure with a trimmed gray beard, and a middle-aged man whose most notable feature is how utterly unremarkable he looks.

“Gentlemen,” Vince says, “you all know my wife, Rowan.”

A chorus of murmured greetings follows. I smile, keeping my expression pleasant but not overly warm. It’s a tough line to toe.

“Please be seated.” I gesture to the conference table we’ve set up.

It’s a power move Vince suggested: me inviting them into what is traditionally his space.

They exchange glances but comply, arranging themselves around the table. Vince takes the seat at the head, with me at his right hand.

“Thank you for coming,” he begins. “As I mentioned earlier this week, I’ve been considering the future of our operations. Specifically, the transition toward legitimate business ventures.”

A ripple of unease passes through the group. This isn’t news to them—Vince has apparently been dropping hints for months—but having it stated so directly seems to make them uncomfortable.

“With all due respect,” Mikhail says haltingly, “we have heard this before. Your father spoke of legitimacy for years.”

“My father spoke of many things,” Vince replies. “I do not merely speak. I act.”

I clear my throat gently. “If I may?”

All eyes turn to me. Some are curious, some skeptical, some openly hostile.

“I understand change is difficult,” I say, clicking to the first slide of my presentation. “Especially when the current system has been profitable. But legitimate business offers advantages that your current operations can’t match.”

“Such as?” asks the thin man with glasses.

“For one, the FBI will stop kicking in your doors.”

A few snort with laughter, though most stay stony-faced.

“To be more expansive, legitimacy is stability,” I continue. “Legal protections. Sustainable growth that doesn’t depend on territory disputes or shifting alliances.”

The unremarkable man snorts. “Pretty words from someone who knows nothing of our world.”

“Anton…” Vince warns.

But I place my hand on Vince’s arm, stopping him. “It’s alright. Anton is correct—I don’t know your world as intimately as you do. But I do know business. I know how to make money without risking prison or death.”

I click to the next slide, which shows a breakdown of their current operations side-by-side with legitimate alternatives.

“Each of your current revenue streams has a legal equivalent that can be just as profitable with far less risk,” I explain. “Illicit shipping operations can transition to legitimate import/export. Protection services become private security firms. Nightclubs and restaurants already operate mostly above board, so no need for much change there, but brand partnerships become an extremely viable option if you don’t have the stink of crime wafting around you.”

“And the rest?” Yuri asks, his young face skeptical. “Some operations have no legitimate alternative.”

“Those will be phased out,” Vince states firmly. “Gradually, but completely.”

The gray-bearded man leans forward. “The Bratva has operated like this for generations, Vincent. We do not simply ‘phase out’ who we are.”

“I’m not asking you to change who you are, Goran,” Vince replies. “Only how you move in the light of day.”

I skip to the next slide. This one has financial projections, with an arrow taking a pleasing arc up and to the right. “The transition would take approximately five years,” I explain. “Phase one involves establishing legitimate corporate structures for existing operations. Phase two redirects cash flow through proper channels. Phase three divests completely from high-risk activities.”

“And what happens to our people during this transition?” Dimitri questions. “Many have skills that don’t translate to your corporate fantasy.”

“Retraining,” I answer. “Reassignment where possible. Generous retirement packages where not.”

The men exchange glances.

“Why now?” Anton asks suddenly. “After all these years, why this sudden interest in going straight? It’s because of her, isn’t it? Because of the baby?”

The room falls silent. It’s the question looming over everything, the elephant we’ve all been dancing around.

“Yes,” Vince says simply. “It is because of my wife and child.”

Silence from the peanut gallery.

“But not only because of them,” he adds. “The world is changing. Law enforcement has new tools, new technologies. The old ways become more dangerous each year. Legitimacy isn’t just a moral choice—it’s a strategic one.”

The thin man with glasses—Pavel—nods in agreement. “He’s right. The algorithms they use now can track patterns we once thought untraceable. Money laundering is getting harder.”

“So what exactly do you need from us?” Mikhail asks.

He was speaking to Vince, but Vince turns to me, giving me the floor. It’s a gesture of trust and respect that doesn’t go unnoticed by the others.

I hide my hands behind my back so no one sees me wringing them together. “We need your boots-on-the-ground expertise,” I say. “Your knowledge of how things actually work, not just how they appear on paper. I can develop the business structures, but I don’t know all the intricacies of your operations.”

“And why should we trust you?” Anton challenges. “You’re an outsider. Worse, you’re Petrov blood.”

That’s a nasty barb, but not an unfair one. Vince and I talked through the possibility of it coming up. His preferred solution involved cutting out the tongue of the first man to speak it, but I convinced him that it was a reasonable fear.

Together, we came up with the only reasonable answer.

“I’m an Akopov now,” I say firmly, resting my hand on my belly. “This child is an Akopov. My loyalty is to my family.”

Silence again.

But this one feels different.

This one feels like the tides have begun to shift.

“Now,” Vince continues, “Rowan has prepared detailed proposals for each of your areas. We’ll review them individually over the coming weeks.”

We dive into work. It’s a slog through details, one block of the Akopov empire at a time being dissected and prepared for rebirth in a new form, a better form. By the time they file out two hours later, I’m exhausted but cautiously optimistic.

“That went better than expected,” I say when we’re finally alone.

Vince locks the door and returns to my side. “You were extraordinary.”

“I was terrified,” I say. “Especially when Anton brought up the Petrov thing.”

“You didn’t look terrified.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “You looked like you belonged at that table. Like you were born for this.”

I laugh softly. “Maybe I was. Turns out having Bratva blood might be genetic after all.”

It’s a joke, but Vince doesn’t smile. Instead, his expression grows serious. “How are you feeling about all of this? Truly?”

I consider the question carefully. “Hopeful,” I finally say. “I believe you want to change. I believe this plan can work. But…”

“But you still have doubts,” he finishes for me.

“I’d be stupid not to,” I say honestly. “This world—your world—it’s in your veins. Breaking free won’t be as simple as a PowerPoint presentation and some corporate restructuring.”

He nods. “That’s why I need you,” he says. “To keep me honest. To remind me why we’re doing this.”

He places his hand on my belly, and as if on cue, the baby kicks against his palm. A small smile touches his lips.

“I won’t let you down,” he promises softly. “Either of you.”

I bite my lip, watching Vince’s hand splayed across my belly, our child nestled between us. The moment feels sacred, tender.

And then it shifts.

Without either of us saying a word, the room heats up around us. Vince’s touch transforms from soft into…

Well, not quite un-soft, but the fire in it is undeniable.

“Vince…” I start, but whatever sensible thing I was about to say evaporates when his hand slides up to cup my breast through my dress.

“Do you have any idea what it does to me?” His thumb tweaks my nipple, sensitive and swollen from pregnancy. “Watching you stand your ground against men who’ve made careers of breaking people?”

I should push his hand away. The Bratva lieutenants are literally right outside the door, probably still discussing whether I’m a liability. This is exactly the kind of reckless behavior that could undermine everything we just built.

But it’d take the jaws of fucking life to pull me away from Vince right now.

“They’ll hear us,” I whisper.

His smile is sin incarnate. “Then we’ll have to keep you quiet, won’t we?”

Before I can process his meaning, he spins me around, bending me over the conference table. My presentation materials scatter as he presses his body against my back, his hardness evident against my ass.

“What are you⁠—”

“I need you.” It’s not a request or even a statement. It’s a raw promise of what’s about to happen. “Right here. Where they can all imagine what’s happening but never see it.”

I whimper. Liquid heat pools between my legs.

His hands find the hem of my dress, inching it up over my thighs until cool air kisses the backs of my legs. I should stop him.

But I want this just as bad as he does.

He hooks his fingers into my panties, dragging them down my legs with agonizing slowness, then guiding my feet with a strong hand around my ankles until I’m free of them.

“Spread your legs,” he commands.

I comply without hesitation, bracing my hands on the polished wood table. His fingers trace the curve of my spine. Goosebumps stand up in their wake.

“You have no idea how fucking beautiful you are like this,” he growls. “Pregnant with my child, wet for me, bent over where I conduct business.”

His hand slips between my thighs, finding me embarrassingly ready for him. A small, broken sound escapes me as he tortures my clit—close enough to tease, but not nearly as much as I want.

“Shhh.” His other hand comes up, my panties dangling from his fingers. “Open your mouth.”

This is filthy. Depraved. Completely inappropriate.

I part my lips.

He presses the silk into my mouth, a makeshift gag that tastes like my own arousal. The fabric stretches my lips, pressing against my tongue in a way that shouldn’t be erotic but somehow is.

“Perfect,” he whispers.

I hear the unmistakable sound of his zipper lowering. The head of his cock nudges against my entrance, teasing and insistent. I push back, desperate for him to fill me, but his hands grip my hips, holding me still.

“I want to look at you,” he says, voice choked with desire. “So eager to be fucked where my men could walk in any moment. Where they’d see their leader’s wife, gagged and spread open.”

Oh, fucking hell.

He enters me in one powerful thrust, and my cry of pleasure is muffled by the impromptu gag. The angle is different with my pregnant belly, deeper somehow, and I see stars as he hilts himself inside me.

“Mine,” he rumbles, setting a brutal pace that has the table creaking beneath us. “Say it.”

I make an unintelligible sound around the fabric in my mouth, desperate and needy.

His hand tangles in my hair, pulling my head back. “Say. It.”

I manage to work my tongue enough to push the panties partially aside. “Yours,” I gasp. “I’m fucking yours.”

The gag goes back in immediately, his rhythm never faltering as he pounds into me. One hand snakes around to circle my clit, and I nearly collapse from the dual sensation.

“They’re still out there,” he snarls against my ear. “Wondering why the door is locked. Imagining what I’m doing to you.”

The thought pushes me closer to the edge. I’m a heaving, swollen bundle of need, hovering right at the bursting point.

“You like that, hm?” His fingers work faster against my swollen nub. “You like knowing they can hear the table moving. That they know exactly what their pakhan is doing to his beautiful wife.”

I nod frantically, beyond shame, beyond reason. There’s only Vince and the exquisite torture of his body against mine, in mine, with mine.

“Come for me,” he commands. “Let them hear what they’ll never have.”

Boom. Fireworks.

My vision whites out as pleasure radiates from my core to my fingertips. The gag barely buries my scream as my inner walls clamp down on him, pulling him deeper.

That does the trick. I drag him down into the abyss with me. Vince buries his face in my neck to stifle his own groan as he empties himself inside me.

I could stay like this forever. I’m owned by him inside and out, stuffed full, still vibrating with orgasms and cum and love.

Finally, he withdraws, carefully turning me to face him. He removes the gag with gentle fingers, his eyes searching mine.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

I nod, still too breathless for words. He helps straighten my dress, then looks at my thoroughly damp panties in his hand.

“I’m keeping these,” he says with a wicked grin as he tucks them into his pocket. “A reminder of what happens when you impress me.”

“You’re impossible,” I finally manage, but there’s no heat in my words. I’m too busy wondering if we have time to go for round two.

He kisses my forehead. “Perhaps,” he agrees. “But I’m yours.”