Filthy Promises: Chapter 64

When we finally peel ourselves off the leather seats and stumble into the house, I take Rowan into the shower, bundle her in a bathrobe, and tuck her into bed. She’s out as soon as her head hits the pillow.

I’d love to join her. She’s a fucking angel, hair fanned across the sheets, cheeks pink, soft and perfect everywhere. I want nothing more than to slide in behind her, pull her into the hollow of my body, and keep her there forever.

But I have work to do.

Kevin Peterson. The name sits like garbage in my mouth. Rowan’s former boss from Marketing.

“We have the initial intelligence report, Vin.” Arkady places a folder on my desk, his expression uncharacteristically grim.

I flip it open and scan the contents. My blood cools with each line I read. The photographs inside show Kevin meeting with men I recognize immediately—Nikolai Barkov’s lieutenants.

Barkov. A second-rate player trying to climb the ranks by offering the feds information on established families. The Bratva equivalent of a rat fucking a snitch.

Arkady points to a second photo. “We intercepted a package exchange. USB drive containing financial records stolen from your company servers.”

I clench my jaw. “And the audio surveillance?”

“Even better.” Arkady slides a transcript across my desk. “Peterson’s been working with Barkov for months. They’re building a RICO case against you, targeting the shipping operation specifically. Well, they’re trying to.”

I scan the transcript, reading Kevin’s pathetic attempts at sounding like a player in our world. “Did we manage to get access to the drive contents?”

“Full copy.” Arkady nods. “It’s mostly legitimate business records, but he’s annotated them with his suspicions. Connecting dots that don’t exist, but⁠—”

“But enough to warrant investigation,” I finish. “Especially given the FBI’s existing interest.”

“Exactly.”

I lean back in my chair as I consider the situation. Six months ago, my response would have been automatic. Quick. Clean. Permanent.

But I made a promise to Rowan after she witnessed Igor’s near-execution. No more secrets. No unnecessary violence. A path toward legitimacy.

More importantly, I promised our child would have choices I never had.

Hard to honor that promise if I’m running my operations from a federal prison.

“What’s our play?” Arkady asks, watching me carefully. He’s known me long enough to read the mental calculus behind my silence.

“I want full background on Peterson,” I say finally. “Finances, family, vices, everything.”

“I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I didn’t have that already, now, would I?” Grinning smugly, he slides another folder toward me. “TLDR is that he’s underwater on his mortgage, deep in gambling debt to some unsavory characters in Atlantic City, and his mother needs assisted living he can’t afford.”

I flip through the pages. Pathetic little man living beyond his means, desperate enough to play with forces he doesn’t understand.

“Perfect,” I murmur.

“So?” Arkady raises an eyebrow. “Warehouse or river?”

“Neither,” I say, closing the file.

Arkady’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “Neither? Then what?”

“I’m going to offer him a job.”

“Have you lost your fucking mind?” Arkady explodes. “This rat is working with Barkov to build a case against you. Against all of us!”

“Precisely.” I stand and straighten my cuffs with deliberate calm. “A desperate man with debts and family obligations is being manipulated by Barkov, who’s using him to curry favor with the feds.”

“So your solution is what? Bring him into the fold? Give him more access to sensitive information?”

“My solution is to remove him from the equation entirely without spilling a drop of blood.”

Understanding dawns on Arkady’s face. “Costa Rica.”

I nod. “The development project needs a marketing director. Peterson has the exact qualifications on paper. Best of all, it’s far, far away from New York, the FBI, and Barkov,” I say. “A golden cage for our little songbird.”

Arkady considers this, then nods slowly. “It’s… neat. But what about the information he’s already passed along?”

“We’ll handle that in parallel. The evidence he’s provided is circumstantial at best. Without him to testify, it weakens their case considerably.”

“And Barkov?”

A colder smile crosses my lips. “I haven’t gone completely soft. Let’s just say our friend Nikolai will be too busy dealing with his own problems to continue his crusade against the Akopov family.”

That particular problem will require a more traditional solution, but Rowan doesn’t need to know the details. Some parts of my world must remain in shadow—for her protection as much as for her peace of mind.

“Set up the meeting,” I tell Arkady. “Tonight. Peterson’s apartment. Make it clear this is a one-time offer.”

Kevin Peterson’s apartment is exactly what I expected.

Cheap stabs at luxury. Ikea furniture with pretensions of designer status. Massive television that probably accounts for half his credit card debt.

The man himself sits across from me, sweating profusely despite the overactive air conditioning unit clanking in the window. His eyes keep darting between me and the two men flanking his living room. I wonder which one of us he’s most afraid of.

“Mr. Akopov,” he stammers, “this is an unexpected honor.”

I stare at him without speaking.

Let the fear fester. Fear is useful. Even now, even with my new approach, fear has its place.

“You’ve been busy, Kevin,” I say finally, my voice conversational as I examine the whiskey he poured with shaking hands. I don’t drink it. “Brighton Beach is quite a distance from your usual haunts.”

The color drains from his face. “I don’t know what⁠—”

“Nikolai Barkov.” I set my untouched glass down. “The FBI. USB drives full of company data. Does any of that sound familiar?”

He looks like he might vomit on his knockoff Persian rug. Good.

“Mr. Akopov, please, I can explain⁠—”

“Your mother’s facility in Westchester costs eighty-five hundred bucks a month,” I interrupt. “Your mortgage is nine months behind. You owe forty-two grand to some particularly unpleasant individuals who operate out of the Borgata.”

His mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for water.

“The way I see it, you have two choices, Kevin,” I continue. “Only two.”

I lay a folder on his coffee table and slide it toward him.

“Inside is an employment contract. Akopov Industries is developing a luxury resort in Costa Rica. We need a marketing director. The position offers triple your current salary, company housing, and comprehensive medical benefits that would cover your mother’s care at a superior facility.”

He stares at the folder like it might contain a venomous snake.

“What’s the catch?” he finally asks.

Smart question. Perhaps the first intelligent thing he’s done in months.

“You leave tonight. A car is waiting downstairs to take you to a private airfield. You sever all contact with Barkov, the FBI, and anyone else involved in this pathetic little scheme. You never return to New York. Most importantly, you never contact Rowan again.”

He swallows hard. “And the second choice?”

I don’t answer immediately. Instead, I nod to Dimitri, who opens the apartment door.

Three men step in, carrying between them a thoroughly battered Nikolai Barkov. His face is purple with bruises, one eye swollen shut, blood caked around his nostrils and the stumps where several of his fingers once were. They force him to his knees in the center of Kevin’s living room.

Kevin makes a choked sound of terror.

“Your friend Nikolai made the second choice,” I say quietly. “He chose to persist in his efforts against my family. To put my pregnant wife at risk. To threaten my child’s future. You can see what that cost him.”

Barkov moans pitifully through split lips.

“So the second choice is not one I recommend,” I continue. “Particularly not for a man with an elderly mother depending on him.”

Kevin lurches to his feet and stumbles drunkenly toward the bathroom. We all listen to the sounds of him vomiting violently. When he emerges, his face is ashen, but his eyes are clearer.

Decision made.

“I’ll take the job,” he whispers.

I stand, buttoning my jacket. “Wise choice. Dimitri will accompany you to pack essentials. The rest of your belongings will be shipped. Your mother will be transferred tomorrow to Green Meadows in Boca Raton. A significant improvement over her current accommodation, I’d say.”

He nods mechanically, eyes still fixed on Barkov’s kneeling form.

“Consider this your second chance, Kevin,” I say as I move toward the door. “I suggest you make the most of it. There won’t be a third.” Before leaving, I turn back. “Oh, and Kevin? My wife believes I’m a better man than I used to be. That I’m capable of mercy, of change. Today, you’ve helped me prove her right. For that, you have my gratitude.”

Then I whisk away. Hopefully, I’ll never have to see that bastard again.

In the car, Arkady glances at me. “That was mighty restrained, Vin.”

“It was pragmatic,” I correct him. “Peterson was a symptom, not the disease. Barkov was the real problem.”

“The FBI will still be investigating,” Arkady points out.

“Without their informant or their Bratva connection, they’ll be chasing ghosts,” I reply. “By the time they rebuild their case, our legitimate operations will be too firmly established to question.”

“And Peterson? You trust him to stay quiet?”

“I trust his self-interest. Costa Rica is paradise compared to the alternatives.”

Arkady gives me a sideways look. “Still… the old Vince wouldn’t have left any loose ends.”

I stare out at the passing city lights. “The old Vince didn’t have a wife who believes he can be better. Or a child who deserves a father outside of prison walls.”

“She’s changed you.”

It’s not a question, but I answer anyway.

“She hasn’t changed who I am. Just how I solve problems.” I turn to face him. “The goal remains the same: protect what’s mine. But the methods… the methods can evolve.”

Three days later, Rowan storms into my study.

“You had him killed, didn’t you?” she demands without preamble.

I set down my pen, studying her carefully. Two months of marriage have taught me when to tread carefully with my wife.

This is definitely one of those times.

“Who are we discussing?” I ask, though I already know.

“Don’t play dumb, Vincent. It doesn’t suit you.” She slams her phone down on my desk. “Kevin Peterson. My former boss. He’s gone. Vanished. His apartment is empty, his office cleaned out, his mother moved from her care facility.”

I maintain eye contact. “And you immediately assumed I had him killed.”

She crosses her arms over her swollen belly. “What was I supposed to think? The man approaches me at an event, makes vague threats about your business practices, and then disappears without a trace three days later?”

“You could have asked me first,” I point out, “instead of storming in here, hurling accusations.”

“I’m asking now,” she spits. “Did you have Kevin killed?”

I rise from my desk and move toward her slowly. “No, Rowan. I did not have Kevin Peterson killed.”

Relief flashes across her face, quickly replaced by suspicion. “Then what happened to him?”

“I offered him a job.”

She blinks rapidly. “A… job?”

“Marketing Director for our Costa Rica development.” I guide her to the leather sofa against the wall, helping her sit as I lower myself beside her. “Triple his salary, company housing, comprehensive benefits for himself and his mother.”

Rowan’s eyes narrow. “Why would you do that?”

“Because he was working with the FBI,” I say simply. “And a rival organization. Gathering evidence against the Akopov family.”

Her face pales. “He… he what?”

“After your encounter with him at the event, I had him investigated. He was meeting regularly with Nikolai Barkov, a minor player trying to curry favor with federal authorities.”

“So you offered him a job?” She sounds incredulous. “Instead of…”

“Instead of having him killed, like he deserved?” I finish for her. “Yes.”

Her hand finds mine, fingers interlacing. “Why? I mean, I’m grateful you didn’t, but it’s not exactly your standard operating procedure.”

The truth rises to my lips before I can consider a more strategic answer. “Because of you.”

Her eyes widen. “Me?”

“You’ve been asking me to change. To find solutions that don’t involve violence. To build something our child can be proud of.” I squeeze her hand gently. “I’m trying, Rowan. For you. For our family.”

Tears well in her eyes. “You sent him to Costa Rica instead of killing him… because of me?”

“I sent him to Costa Rica because it was the most effective solution,” I correct. “But yes, I considered what you would want. What you would think was right.”

She laughs through her tears. “That’s… that’s actually incredibly romantic, in a completely twisted way.”

“I’m a work in progress. But there is progress, Rowan. There is.”

Her smile fades. “And Barkov?”

I hesitate. I promised her honesty, but some truths are heavier than others.

“Nikolai Barkov has been encouraged to pursue other opportunities,” I say carefully. “Outside of New York.”

Her eyes search mine. She knows I’m not telling her everything, but she also understands why.

“He’s alive?”

“Yes.”

“Will he stay that way?”

I cup her face in my hand. “As long as he remains far away from what’s mine.”

She leans into my touch, her anger dissipating though concern still clouds her eyes. “I was so afraid,” she confesses. “When I heard Kevin was gone, I thought…”

“You thought I’d crossed a line we couldn’t come back from,” I guess.

She nods wordlessly.

“Rowan.” I tilt her chin up, ensuring she meets my gaze. “I’m not a good man. I never will be, not in the traditional sense. But I’m trying to be a better one. For you. For our child.”

“I don’t need you to be a saint, Vince,” she says softly. “I just need to know that the man I fell in love with is still in there somewhere.”

“He is.” I press my forehead to hers. “You found him when no one else could. When he’d convinced even himself he didn’t exist anymore.”

She pulls me into a fierce hug, her pregnant belly pressing against me—a constant, physical reminder of everything we’ve built together. Everything we stand to lose if I make the wrong choices.

“Don’t make me doubt you again,” she whispers against my neck. “I can’t bear it.”

“I won’t,” I promise.

I hope it’s one I can keep.