Chapter 37: Filthy Lies: Chapter 37

Vince was right. When I wake the next morning, things are different.

Not better.

Just different.

The house runs like clockwork despite my absence from its gears. Vince has fed Sofiya, entertained her, put her down for morning nap. He’s rearranged meetings, canceled appointments, and somehow kept the Bratva wolves from our door while I spent sixteen hours sleeping like the dead.

I find him in his study, phone pressed to his ear, speaking in clipped Russian. When he sees me, something in his face changes—softens at the edges.

“I’ll call back,” he says into the phone, then disconnects. “You’re up.”

“Barely.” I sink into the chair across from his desk. My body feels like it’s being dragged underwater. Every movement requires triple the usual effort. “Has Sofiya been okay?”

“She’s been fine.” He studies me. “Food or coffee first?”

“Coffee. Black as hell.”

He nods and presses the intercom. “Coffee for Mrs. Akopov. Black.”

I tug at a loose thread on my sleeve. “Thank you. For handling everything.”

His jaw works. “Did you expect less?”

“Honestly? Yes.” I look up, meeting his gaze directly. “I’m not used to you being…”

“What?”

“Gentle,” I admit. “Patient. I’m used to you being my strength in battle, not my… I don’t know. My safe harbor.”

Something shutters behind his eyes. “You’re my wife.”

“That usually means I’m the one taking care of things.”

“Not today.”

The knock at the door announces the coffee, saving me from having to form a response. I take the steaming mug gratefully, letting the scalding liquid burn away the fog in my head.

“The, um, funeral,” I begin.

“Scheduled for tomorrow at eleven.” Vince leans back in his chair. “Private service. Security in place. Your mother’s friends and colleagues have been notified.”

“You’ve thought of everything.”

“I missed one thing.” He pulls a folder from his desk drawer. “I need you to look at these.”

I set down the coffee and take the folder. Inside are glossy photographs of gravestones—elegant, minimalist designs in varying shades of granite and marble. “I didn’t know what she would have wanted,” Vince says, almost apologetically.

I can only stare at them. Just when I think I’m starting to turn a corner, something like this comes up, a moment you always knew was coming but never quite figured out how to brace for.

“The gray one,” I finally manage. “With the slanted top. She’d say the others were too ostentatious.”

Vince nods and takes the folder back. “Consider it done.”

The funeral is a dizzy haze of black cloth and murmured condolences. People I barely remember from my childhood appear to pay respects. Mom’s colleagues from before her illness speak of her intelligence, her dedication, her uncompromising work ethic.

No one mentions how she smuggled a child out of Brighton Beach to escape a crime lord. No one knows she spent decades looking over her shoulder, expecting retribution that never came.

They don’t know how much of herself she carved away to keep me safe.

But I know.

I fucking know.

Vince stands beside me throughout, his hand firm at the small of my back. Sofiya is mercifully quiet in Arkady’s arms, fascinated by the solemn ceremony.

She doesn’t know death yet. Doesn’t understand that the woman who held her just days ago is now sealed in polished wood, descending into the cold earth.

It’s when they lower the casket that I feel it—a prickling sensation at the back of my neck. The hairs there stand to attention, a warning sign honed through months of living on high alert.

We’re being watched.

I scan the cemetery, paranoia sharpening my senses. Security personnel blend among the mourners and line the perimeter, but they’re looking for threats from outside, not within.

That’s when I see him.

Standing at the edge of the cemetery, partially obscured by a massive oak tree, is Grigor Petrov.

He doesn’t approach or make any motion to draw attention to himself. He simply stands, head bowed, paying silent respect to the woman he once loved enough to let her go.

My gasp must be audible, because Vince’s hand immediately tightens on my waist. “What is it?” he murmurs, voice low enough that only I can hear.

I incline my head slightly toward the oak tree. “Grigor.”

Vince’s entire body tenses, preparing for action. “Stay here.”

“No,” I grab his wrist to stop him. “Let him be.”

“Rowan—”

“He loved her, Vince.” My voice cracks on the word loved. Past tense. “Let him say goodbye.”

For a moment, I think he’ll refuse. Then his shoulders relax, though only a bit. “If he makes one move toward you or Sofiya⁠—”

“He won’t.”

And he doesn’t. When I look back at the oak tree, Grigor is gone. Like a ghost that was never really there at all.

At least he’s consistent in that regard.

After the service, when the mourners disperse and Sofiya is tucked safely in bed, I find myself in Mom’s room at our compound. The smell of her still lingers in the air—antiseptic overlaid with the faintest trace of the jasmine perfume she’d worn since I was a child.

I sit on her bed, running my fingers over the quilt she’d insisted on bringing from home. The well-worn fabric holds memories in its fibers—late night stories, fever sweats, tears both happy and heartbroken.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the empty room. To her, wherever she’s gone. “I didn’t save you.”

My hand brushes something hard beneath the pillow. Curious, I reach under and pull out a small, wooden box I’ve never seen before. It’s simple but beautifully crafted, with no lock, just a small brass latch holding it shut.

Inside, I find a stack of letters. The paper is yellowed with age, the handwriting bold and assured, nothing like my mother’s delicate script.

The first envelope bears a single word: Margaret.

With trembling fingers, I unfold the letter inside.

My solnishka,

If you are reading this, you have chosen to leave, as I always feared you would. I cannot blame you. The life I offer is stained with blood that will never wash clean. You deserve sunlight, not shadow.

Know this: I will not follow. Not because I do not wish to move heaven and earth to find you, but because I respect the choice you have made. Your freedom means more to me than my own happiness.

But if you ever need something—ever, for any reason—the number I gave you will always reach me. No matter how many years pass, I will answer. I will come. I will do what you ask of me.

And until then, or even if that day never comes, I will hold the memory of your smile like a talisman against the darkness that threatens to swallow me whole.

Forever yours,

Grigor

I read the letter again, and again, and again, until the words blur before my eyes.

This isn’t the cold-blooded killer Vince described.

This is a man broken by love, respecting a woman’s choice even as it destroys him.

There are more letters. Dozens of them, spanning years. In them, I discover a man I never knew existed. A man who tracked my progress through school, who knew about my science fair projects and my failed attempt at making the track team. A man who arranged for the telescope I received on my twelfth birthday, for the prom dress that arrived mysteriously when Mom’s bank account couldn’t stretch to cover it.

A man who loved from afar because he believed it was the only way to keep us safe.

I’m still sitting there, letters scattered around me, when Vince finds me hours later. “Rowan?” He pauses in the doorway, taking in the scene. “What’s all this?”

I hold up one of the letters. “Letters from Grigor to my mother. Letters she kept all these years.”

Wariness crosses his face. “What do they say?”

“That he loved her. That he respected her choice to leave. That he watched over us from a distance.” I swallow the knot in my throat. “That he’s been part of my life in ways I never knew.”

Vince’s expression darkens as he approaches, taking one of the letters to scan its contents. “This doesn’t change who he is, Rowan.”

“Doesn’t it?” I gather the letters into a pile. “It changes who I thought he was.”

“He’s still a killer. Still the head of an organization that deals in death and suffering.”

“So are you,” I counter. “And yet here we are.”

The silence stretches between us, taut as a tripwire. “It’s not the same,” he finally says.

“Isn’t it?” I laugh. “You and Grigor are more alike than you want to admit. Why can’t you see that?”

“I would never have abandoned you and Sofiya the way he abandoned your mother and you.”

“He didn’t abandon us.” I hold up another letter. “He let us go. There’s a difference.”

Vince runs a hand through his silver-streaked hair. “What are you saying, Rowan? That you want a relationship with him now? Do these letters somehow erase the danger he poses?”

“I’m saying I understand him better,” I reply. “And maybe, just maybe, understanding is the first step toward something besides all the awful shit that’s come before.”

He sighs and sits beside me on the bed. “You’re grieving. Looking for connections that aren’t there.”

“Or maybe I’m seeing clearly for the first time.” I touch his face to feel the tension in his jaw. “Love—even love born in darkness—can still be real. Worth fighting for.”

His eyes search mine. “And our love? What’s that worth?”

I lean forward until our foreheads touch. “Everything,” I whisper. “But not at the cost of more bloodshed. Not at the cost of Sofiya growing up in a war zone.”

“What then?” His rasp is barely audible. “What’s the alternative?”

I trace the line of his jaw with my finger. “What if the letters aren’t just about the past? What if they’re a glimpse of a different future?”

“Speak plainly, Rowan.”

“What if peace is possible?” I say against his lips. “What if there’s a way to end this that doesn’t involve more death?”

Vince closes his eyes. His lashes are dark against his skin, the only softness in a face carved from granite. “Peace requires trust,” he murmurs. “And trust is exactly what we can’t afford.”

“Can’t we?” I challenge. “Or won’t we?”

His eyes snap open, winter blue and shark-cold. “Careful, Rowan,” he warns. “Grief makes you vulnerable. Makes you see possibilities that don’t exist.”

“Or maybe grief strips away the lies we tell ourselves.” I press my palm against his chest, feeling his heartbeat quicken. “Like the lie that we can keep living this way. That Sofiya can grow up surrounded by guards and guns and still be whole.”

“And what’s your solution? Alliance with Grigor? With the man who⁠—”

“With the man who loved my mother enough to let her go,” I finish for him. “With the man who shares Sofiya’s blood, whether you like it or not. Yes, that’s my solution.”

Vince stands abruptly. “This conversation is pointless. Grigor and I will never see eye to eye, no matter how many love letters you’ve found.”

I clutch the letters to my chest. “He was at the funeral today. He stood at a distance, paying his respects. He didn’t try to approach. Didn’t try to speak to me. Just honored the woman he loved.”

Something flashes across Vince’s face. Something that might, in another man, be doubt. In him, I’m not sure what to call it.

“You’re reading too much into it,” he dismisses. “It was a power play, nothing more.”

“Was it a power play when you arranged my mother’s funeral? When you picked out her headstone? When you held me while I cried?” I rise to face him. “Or was it love?”

He stares at me, jaw working. “That’s different.”

“Why? Because it’s you? You’re allowed to be complex, but Grigor isn’t?”

“Because I don’t want to fucking kill you!” The words explode from him. “Because my love doesn’t come with a body count!”

I can only shake my head sadly. “How many people have died since we met, Vince? How many lives have been destroyed in my name? In Sofiya’s?”

His face darkens. “I did what was necessary to protect what’s mine.”

“And what if that’s exactly what Grigor is doing, too?” I step closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin. “What if we’re all just doing what we think is necessary, and meanwhile, the cycle of violence never ends?”

Vince’s hands find my shoulders, gripping hard enough to bruise. “What do you want from me, Rowan?”

“I want you to consider that there might be another way,” I reply. “For all of us.”

His laugh is harsh, without humor. “No, there is no other way. This is who we are. This is the life we’ve chosen.”

“Maybe.” I turn away, gathering the letters. “Or maybe it’s just the life we’ve accepted because we’re too afraid to imagine something different.”