Filthy Promises: Chapter 67

My father’s study door looms as it always has. Grandiose, overly large, suffused with its own importance.

I don’t knock before entering. Those days are long past.

Andrei looks up from his desk, surprise flickering across his features before his expression settles into careful neutrality.

“What an unexpected surprise, son.”

“Is it?” I close the door behind me. “I thought you might be anticipating this visit.”

He sets down his pen. “Something on your mind?”

“Several somethings. First National Bank.” I watch his face closely. “The Costa Rica development.”

Not a flicker of guilt crosses his features. My father has always been an excellent liar. It’s a skill he passed down to me, along with his capacity for violence and his unwavering belief in family above all else.

“Ah,” he says simply. “So you’ve heard.”

“That you personally sabotaged a deal worth millions? A deal central to our legitimization strategy?” I move closer to his desk. “Yes, I heard.”

He sighs, like I’m a child who’s disappointed him. “Sit down, Vincent.”

“I’ll stand.”

“Very well.” He leans back in his chair. “The Costa Rica development was a mistake. Too visible, too ambitious. It would have drawn unwanted attention from authorities already suspicious of our activities.”

“Bullshit.” I plant my hands on his desk, leaning forward. “The development was legally sound. We had every permit, every approval. The only reason it fell through is because you poisoned the well.”

“I protected our family interests,” he counters. “Something you seem increasingly incapable of doing.”

“Our family interests?” I laugh harshly. “Or your outdated vision of what this family should be?”

His eyes narrow. “Watch yourself, boy. You may be married now, you may have a child on the way, but you are still my son. You still owe me respect.”

“Respect is earned,” I tell him. “And you’ve just lost whatever remained of mine.”

I’ve never spoken to him this way before. Never challenged him so directly. The look on his face says he doesn’t fucking like it.

“This obsession with legitimacy is… pah, it is weakening us,” he spits after a pause. “Our enemies circle like wolves, waiting for any sign of vulnerability. And here you are, dismantling the very structures that have kept us safe and powerful for generations.”

“Those structures are crumbling,” I retort. “The old ways are becoming more dangerous every day. Technology, surveillance, international cooperation between law enforcement—the world is changing, Father. We must change with it or be left behind.”

“Change, yes. Abandon our heritage? Never.” He shakes his head. “This American girl has filled your head with fantasies. Made you soft.”

At the mention of Rowan, my anger sharpens to a deadly point. “Leave her out of this.”

“How can I, when she’s clearly the source of your delusions?” He stands, matching my stance. “You think you can wash the blood from your hands so easily? Become some corporate puppet, playing by their rules? That’s not who we are, Vincent. That’s not who you are.”

“You don’t get to tell me who I am anymore.” My voice is quiet but firm. “I am making my own path now.”

“At the expense of everything I built?”

“Everything you built?” I straighten, looking him directly in the eye. “You built nothing. You took what Grandfather created and maintained it. You were a caretaker, not a visionary. And you almost fucked that up, too.”

Offended color floods his face. “How dare you⁠—”

“I dare because it’s the fucking truth,” I cut him off. “You’re so afraid of change that you’d sabotage your own son rather than see the family evolve beyond your control.”

“I am trying to save you from yourself!” he roars, slamming his fist on the desk. “This path leads to the end of everything the Akopov name stands for!”

“No,” I say calmly. “It leads to a future where my child doesn’t have to make the choices we did. Where they can be proud of their name without having to hide what it really means.”

We stare at each other across the desk. Decades of unspoken tension crackles between us. For the first time, I see my father clearly—not as the invincible pakhan who shaped my childhood, but as a man afraid of becoming irrelevant. Of losing his grip on the world he’s always controlled.

Just a sad, old bastard fumbling for crumbs.

“I am going forward with the legitimization plan,” I tell him. “With or without your blessing. With or without the Costa Rica development.”

He arches a white eyebrow. “And if I continue to oppose you?”

“Then you are no longer an ally,” I say simply. “And I treat my enemies accordingly.”

“You would threaten your own father?”

“You drew the battle lines, not me.” I move toward the door. “It doesn’t have to be this way. Fix the situation with First National. Restore the financing for Costa Rica. Prove that you can be part of the solution instead of the problem. If not… well, you know what must come after that.”

I leave without waiting for his response. Dust sifts down from the ceiling when I slam the door closed. In the hallway, I pause, letting the weight of what just happened settle over me.

I’ve just declared war on my own father. The man who raised me, who taught me everything I know about power and survival.

But he threatened Rowan…

So, no.

I don’t fucking regret it.