Filthy Promises: Chapter 9

I wait until the office empties before I make the call.

Even Diane has left. The old witch is punctual to a fault, out the door at 6 P.M. sharp every day for the past fifteen years.

Rowan should be gone by now, too. I sent her home myself.

Dialing the secure line, I wait for the click of connection. “Da?” The voice on the other end is gruff, impatient.

“Mikhail,” I answer, leaning back in my chair. “We need to discuss tomorrow night.”

“I have everything under control, pakhan.” He uses my father’s title—the one that will soon be mine. It sounds wrong coming from his mouth, like he’s trying it on before it properly belongs to me. Flattery or mockery, I’m not sure.

I don’t fucking care, either. He can keep his opinions to himself.

“The shipment arrives at the docks tomorrow night,” I say, keeping my voice low despite the empty office. “Make sure our people are in position.”

“Of course. How many crates?”

“Twelve. All unmarked. The manifests will say farm equipment.”

Mikhail laughs. “Farm equipment worth eight million? The customs agents must be blind as well as stupid.”

“They’re well-paid to be both.” I drum my fingers on the desk. “No witnesses, Mikhail. Andrei wants this handled cleanly.”

My father may be retiring, but his standards remain exacting. A clean operation is a successful operation.

“Understood. And the competition?”

“The Italians won’t be a problem. I’ve spoken with Salvatore personally.”

“You trust his word?”

I smile at the question, and also at the memory of the Italian lieutenant dangling upside down from rusty chains in a dank Tribeca basement as I asked again and again whether he grasped what I was telling him.

“I trust that he understands the consequences of breaking it,” I say vaguely.

There’s a pause on the line. “And what about the commissioner? He’s been making noise again, demanding more money.”

Greedy bastard. We already pay him enough to fund his mistress’s Park Avenue apartment and his son’s cocaine habit. And he still wants more?

“If the commissioner gives you trouble, remind him of our arrangement.” I straighten a pen on my desk, aligning it perfectly with the edge. “And Mikhail? No mistakes this time.”

Last month’s fuckup cost us two million and a good man. I won’t tolerate another.

Just then, I hear something. A soft thud, coming from outside my office.

“Wait,” I tell Mikhail, alert now. “I’ll call you back.”

I hang up without waiting for his response.

“Hello?” I call out, rising from my chair. “Who’s there?”

Silence answers me.

I move to the door, pulling it open. The outer office is empty, illuminated only by the dim security lights.

But something feels off.

I inhale deeply, and there it is—that scent. Subtle, drugstore-brand perfume. The same one that lingered after Rowan left my office earlier today.

It can’t be. She left. I watched her walk toward the elevator myself.

Yet the air carries her signature like a whispered secret. Fresh, recent. No more than a minute old.

Crossing to her desk, I notice her chair is slightly askew, as if moved hastily. Her computer is off, her workspace neat—except for one thing.

Her purse is gone.

It was here before, a worn leather thing that’s seen better days. Now, the hook where she hung it is empty.

“Shit,” I mutter.

She came back. She heard me.

I stalk back to my office, running through the conversation in my head. Would she understand the context? Connect the dots?

Most importantly, can I trust her to keep her mouth shut?

I grab my jacket and head for the elevator. The thought of Rowan hearing that call sends an unexpected jolt of adrenaline through me—part anger, part something else.

This complicates things.

Or does it?

If she overheard, and if she says nothing, it’s a test passed without me even administering it.

If she runs her mouth…

Well, there are rusty chains in Tribeca begging for a new occupant.

The elevator doors close, and I find myself thinking not of the security breach, but of how she looked today. Those nervous glances. The lower lip swollen from her gnawing at it while she concentrated. The flush that crept up her neck whenever I stood too close.

It drove me fucking crazy.

All day long, I felt her presence like an itch I couldn’t scratch. I’ve had more beautiful women. More experienced women. Women who knew exactly how to please me without being told.

But there’s something about her. The innocence? The desperation? How laughable her attempts to hide that crush from me truly are?

No—it’s the chase.

It’s been a long time since I wanted something I couldn’t immediately have.

The elevator reaches the underground parking garage. My Aston Martin awaits. I slide behind the wheel, but I don’t start the engine immediately. Instead, I pull out my phone and send a one-word text to the man who’s been following Rowan.

REPORT

The response comes quickly: Subject returned home. Appears agitated. Hasn’t contacted anyone.

Good. She’s scared but not stupid enough to talk. Not yet, anyway.

I start the car, its engine growling to life like a predator waking from slumber. The sound centers me, reminds me of who I am. What I am.

And what I’m soon to become.

Twenty minutes later, I pull up outside an unassuming building in Brighton Beach. No sign marks its purpose, but the two men standing guard at the door tell the real story.

They nod respectfully as I approach. “Good evening, Mr. Akopov.”

“Dimitri. Sasha.” I acknowledge them with a nod of my own. “Is everyone here?”

“Yes, sir. Waiting for you in the back room.”

I enter the Russian restaurant, the smell of borscht and cigarette smoke hitting me immediately. The patrons are a mix of elderly folks playing chess, young couples on dates, and—in the darkened corners—my father’s men conducting business.

To the casual observer, it’s just a neighborhood joint.

To those who know, it’s the heart of Akopov territory.

I make my way to the private room in the back, where six men sit around a large table. They rise when I enter.

“Sit,” I command, taking my place at the head of the table. “Let’s make this quick.”

The eldest of them, Artem, speaks first. “The Koreans are pushing into our territory again. They’ve opened a front business on 34th Street.”

“A massage parlor,” adds Yuri, the youngest lieutenant. “But we all know what they’re really selling.”

I steeple my fingers. “How many girls?”

“At least fifteen. All underage.”

My jaw tightens. Among the many sins of the Akopov Bratva, trafficking minors is not one of them. We may be monsters, but even monsters have standards.

“Shut it down,” I order. “Tonight.”

“How loud should we be about it?” Yuri asks, always eager for violence.

“Quiet, but effective. I want the girls removed safely, the managers sent back to Seoul with a message, and the owners reminded who really owns that block.” I fix him with a cold stare. “No casualties unless absolutely necessary. Understood?”

Yuri nods, clearly disappointed. It’s fine—he’ll get his fill of blood soon enough, for some reason or another. There are always skulls to crack, fingers to break, harsh lessons to be dealt out to those who’ve forgotten the ways of our world.

The door opens, and a familiar figure strolls in.

“Late as usual, Arkady,” I remark, though there’s no real anger in my voice.

Arkady Szymanski, my oldest friend and right-hand man, grins unapologetically. He might look like a wholesome model, with blond, tousled hair and dimples in his cheeks like he belongs in a fucking Got Milk commercial, but I know better. So does everyone who’s ever crossed us.

“Traffic,” he offers as an excuse, claiming an empty chair at my right hand. “What did I miss?”

“Korean problem,” Artem informs him. “Yuri’s handling it.”

Arkady nods. “Good. The shipment tomorrow—all set?”

“Everything’s in place,” I confirm. “Mikhail is overseeing the dock operation personally.”

“Should I tell him to get his head out of his shit-covered ass and do it right this time?”

I chuckle. “Already told him. Not with your poetry, of course. But the message was received.”

“I’ll get that printed on a Hallmark card in case he forgets. Then I’ll fold the card until it’s all corners and shove it up said shit-covered ass. Only then will it truly be ‘message received.’”

He’s a motor mouth, but the fucker knows how to make me laugh. One of the few alive who does that on a semi-regular basis.

The meeting continues, covering territory disputes, protection payments, and upcoming business ventures. Some of it is legal. Most of it is not. The dual nature of the Akopov empire requires constant balancing—the legitimate face we show the world, and the shadow organization that truly wields the power.

One’s a hell of a lot more fun than the other, though.

An hour later, business concluded, the lieutenants file out to go give the Korean massage parlor a not-so-happy ending, leaving only Arkady and me lounging at the table.

“Drink?” he offers, heading to the bar.

“Vodka. Neat.”

He pours two glasses and returns, sliding one across to me. “I heard you got a new assistant. Vanessa finally get shipped off to Siberia?”

“Singapore,” I correct, sipping the vodka. “And yes, I replaced her.”

“Anyone interesting?”

I consider the question. Is Rowan interesting? A marketing associate with a sick mother and a five-year crush on me? Does that qualify?

“Perhaps,” I finally answer. “She’s… different.”

Arkady raises an eyebrow. “Different how? And please don’t tell me you’re fucking this one, too.”

“Not yet.”

He sighs dramatically. “Vince, when will you learn? Sleeping with the help always ends badly.”

“This isn’t about sex.”

Though, as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re partially a lie. Of course it’s about sex—at least partly. I’ve been half-hard all day just watching her fumble through her new duties. That green dress is a fucking crime against humanity, if only because it belongs in tatters next to my bed.

“Then what is it about?” he presses.

I swirl the clear liquid in my glass, watching the light refract through it. “My father is pushing the marriage issue again.”

Understanding dawns on Arkady’s face. “Ah. The inheritance clause. Tick-tock. Seven months left, right?”

“Six and a half.”

“And you think this girl might be…?”

I shrug. “She could be useful. For maintaining my cover, if nothing else.”

Arkady studies me for a long moment. He sees past the facade; he always has. “You’re playing a dangerous game, my friend. Using some innocent girl as a shield against your father’s demands?”

“She’s not that innocent.” Even as I say it, though, I recall the wide-eyed look she gave me when I mentioned her crush. The blush that followed. The whispered Oh. “And she’ll be well-compensated for her troubles.”

“Money ain’t everything, bub.”

“Says the man with three penthouses and a yacht.”

He laughs, conceding the point. “Fair enough. But still—does she know what she’s getting into?”

“No.” I finish my drink. “And she won’t. Not until I’m sure she can be trusted.”

“And when will that be?”

I think of the thud outside my office door. The lingering scent of her cheap perfume. The report that she went straight home, told no one what she heard, did not pass Go, did not collect two hundred dollars. All positive signs, and yet…

“That remains to be seen.”

Arkady leans forward, suddenly serious. “Just remember—civilian attachments are liabilities in our world. If she becomes a problem…”

He doesn’t finish the thought. He doesn’t need to.

We both know what happens to problems in the Bratva.

“She won’t be,” I say with more certainty than I feel. “She’s smart. Desperate. And she wants something only I can give her.”

“A good fucking?” Arkady suggests with his usual dose of grace and chivalry.

I smile despite myself. “That, too. But more than that—security. Status. A way out of the pit her life has become.”

“What happens when she discovers the pit you’re offering is much, much deeper?”

It’s a good question. One I don’t have an answer for yet.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” I say. Then I shrug. “Or we’ll set the bridge on fire. Either way is fine with me.”

Arkady sighs and tops off both our glasses. “To beautiful, desperate women,” he says, raising his cup in a toast. “May they never realize how dangerous we really are until it’s too late.”

I clink my glass against his, but my mind is elsewhere.

Back in my office, with Rowan’s scent lingering in the air.

Back to the moment I realized she might have heard something she shouldn’t have.

Back to the decision I now face—trust her, or eliminate the risk she represents.

For some reason I can’t quite name, I’m hoping for the former. Which is strange, because hope has never been part of my vocabulary.

Until now.